Fearful Con Cerns The Earning of Trust
by Ultracape
Summary: Neal is sure he would endure anything to bring Kate's murderer to justice until more is demanded of him than he could ever imagine. Non-slash, Graphic violence and brutality
1. Chapter 1

Fearful Con Cerns: The Earning of Trust

Authors Notes:

Once I finished writing this story (kind of an opus for me) I realized I had a lot of explaining to do and instead of all of you having to wait till the end, I'd put all of the explanations up front so you can get them over with and have a better understanding of what this is about.

First and foremost is that you should really read Fearful Con Cerns (which can be found at ) before you read this, otherwise while this will make sense; it won't make as much sense and I do reference the events in the first story from time to time.

There is at least one very graphically written murder scene in this story of a very minor character. There are a few other scenes of graphic brutality. I've tagged the chapters with warnings. As always, if you don't want to read it, then don't.

While there are explicate sexual references there are no sex scenes but there is some foul language.

Also, this story is completely written so while I'll take my time posting it, it will all be posted. The more reviews I get, the faster it will be posted.

Now some explanations: Neal seemed to know so little about pistols in "Book of Hours" but was an expert skeet shooter and so I'm making the not unfounded assumption that he had lessons of some sort with one and never learned about the other.

Next: I'd never thought of them that way but now I can say that the plot bunnies really gave me a run for the money on this one. I still don't know if it was a theme in search of a plot or a plot in search of a theme, or maybe both in search of a concept. This story bears no resemblance to how it started as I got half way done with several scenarios and just had to toss them because they weren't working.

I did enough research on this story to assure myself that the little I thought I knew about anything was totally wrong. Everything is purely author's license to make anything up to fit the plot. This story as well as Fearful Con Cerns were based on the spoiler that there is a question about who Neal is working for.

While I don't know any of the White Collar fanfiction writers and fans personally, so many of them have been kind enough to complement my previous stories and this has given me a great deal of encouragement. Thank you all, very much. A simple "I loved you story," really means so much. I'll even take "I liked your story," or "Story, good." Okay, even "good." Okay, okay, I'll even accept, "It didn't suck." Even if you didn't like my story, and have some constructive criticism to offer I'd be more than happy for it to be offered.

Disclaimer: I don't own White Collar and am not getting any money from the publication of this fan fiction. However, Dear Mr. Easton, if there is a rip in the universe and you read this, I have to confess that I've noticed something really strange during my 200th time of re-watching the series (apart from rotten continuity. Those flipping coat collars, up and down and up and down depending on the camera angle and mysteriously moving bodies, please.). My apartment is actually bigger than Neal's loft. I didn't think it was possible to have a smaller place than mine. Of course Neal has a terrace and view of New York City and my one window looks out over a parking lot so please don't sue me.

Summary: Neal is sure he would endure anything to bring Kate's murderer to justice until more is demanded of him than he could ever imagine.

Spoilers: Threads, Book of Hours, All In, Free Fall, Hard Sell, Bad Judgment, Bottlenecked, Front Man, Out of the Box, oh, the whole first season.

_Thoughts are in Italics_

Parings: Neal Caffery, Peter Burke (non-slash)

And now without further ado the story.

Fearful "Con" Cerns: The Earning of Trust

By Ultracape

Chapter I

He once told a judge not too long ago, that he was proud of most everything he'd done in his life. Up until this point, it was true.

Now Neal Caffery, art forger, alleged con artist, thief, money launderer and racketeer, regretted every lie, every con, ever theft, in fact every criminal act he'd ever committed or even thought of committing. At this point, his very nature was his own worst enemy.

He needed to tell the truth, wanted to tell the truth and planned to tell the truth but was terrified no one in this courtroom would believe him, and the fact was he couldn't blame them. What sane person would trust a word he said?

Lies were so much easier; they were what people wanted to hear and people liked you when you told them things that pleased them and the more you pleased them the more they'd like you. The truth hurt. It hurt to hear and as he had admitted to Peter, it hurt him to tell. The truth scared him. It invariably brought him pain and trouble. It made him vulnerable and made him feel like he was baring his soul and so his hands sweat and shook as he rubbed them against his Devore trousers while trying to project some of his vaunted confidence.

But how could he be expected to be confident, sitting on the leather cushion of an oak chair in the witness stand in a walnut paneled vaulted ceiling court room, replete with full size paintings of viewscapes of old New York City and portraits of the city's prominent judiciary staring down at him, probably with disgust? Though the ever present sounds of city traffic drifted up from the street, the room radiated an overwhelming quiet, even though there were people whispering back and forth. The atmosphere made him look around half expecting to see ADA Jack McCoy walk towards him from the prosecutor's table to verbally beat him into confessing to every crime ever committed.

But this time, though he felt like it, he was not on trial. He was Neal Caffery, convicted felon on a work-release contract to the F.B.I. as a consulting expert on white collar crimes. He was the prosecutor's chief witness, a prosecutor, who looked more like a stereotypical grandmother than what her nickname implied, Hang Him High Hannah Magill. At their first meeting she nearly scared him to death when she told him to kill the charm and the emotional control or she'd cut it out of him with a dull knife, and then won his heart forever by serving him milk and home made chocolate chip cookies.

She had promised Neal that he would see justice done and that Kate's murderer would be punished to the full extent of the law. Neal wanted to believe her and Peter told him that her conviction record showed that she hit many more times than she missed.

At the defense table sat the defendant, suspected in more than three dozen assassinations and complicit in a few dozen coups all over the world, Troy Miller. He was as tall as Neal's handler, F.B.I. Special Agent Peter Burke, with the same coloring and physique. Yet the resemblance ended there. This man needed no coaching to look menacing, something Peter only seemed to achieve when he had his gun drawn on a homicidal perp. Miller's eyes kept running up and down Neal, sizing him up with something like anticipation and gave Neal the creeps, as if he needed any more reason to be nervous.

Aside from the defense attorney, the judge, court stenographer and bailiff the courtroom was empty, this being only a preliminary hearing to hear motions and determine if there was enough evidence against Miller to support the charges and go to trial.

The preliminaries of who Neal was and where he worked went quickly and were relatively painless. Magill had told him to be up front about his conviction, the terms of his release and his work and that this would take the teeth out of the defense attorney's attack on Neal's credibility.

"Mr. Caffery, what did you see when you approached the plane," asked Magill from her seat behind the prosecution table. She nodded in gentle encouragement to him.

"I saw my girlfriend Kate Moreau waving to me from the hatch of the plane and a man in the pilot seat."

"The control tower reports showed that the plane was at least fifty yards away from the runway doors of Hanger Four, where you entered the field. Are you sure you saw her?"

"Yes. I know Kate's face better than my own. She waved and then, and then she must have seen Peter, I mean my handler, F.B.I. Special Agent Peter Burke. She must have seen me stop and turn, when he called my name, so she went back into the plane but then when I turned back towards the plane again I saw her face through the window as well as the man sitting in the pilot's seat."

"Would you tell us what happened next?"

"Special Agent Burke called my name. I turned back and I asked him why he was there and he said he'd come as my friend to talk me out of leaving with Kate."

"And this is what delayed you?"

"Objection, leading the witness," called the defense attorney, Francis Platz who looked like a tall Denny Crane.

"Sustained," said Judge Kleiner.

"Let me rephrase. Mr. Caffery, what was the effect of this conversation?"

This was it. Neal had to tell the truth, something he actually felt painful doing from time to time. Yet this time he could not con, he could not obfuscate, he had to strip his soul bare, show the court the truth of how the events effected him. He had to do this to get justice for Kate. "I was delayed in boarding the plane," Neal's voice hitched a bit as he sought desperately for the memory to come back, a memory he'd been trying to bury for months. "I, I was speaking to Peter. He asked me why I didn't say goodbye to him."

Suddenly Neal could feel the wet flakes of snow landing on his cheeks and smell the stink of hot jet fuel fumes mixed with the odor of an approaching storm as the memory assembled in the background of the present like a sheer curtain in a theater separating him from the play.

"I told him 'you know why.' He said 'tell me.' I answered 'Because you're the only one who could change my mind.' He asked me if he had changed it. I couldn't answer. I didn't know if I could. I turned to leave. I could see Kate waiting for me, watching me from the window. But Peter was right; I had a life, a good one. I was torn. I'd escaped prison for her, I made the deal with Peter for her, I searched for her. She was my reason. But Peter had given me a second chance, one that could include Kate. I thought, maybe we wouldn't leave. Maybe Kate would stay with me and we'd be together here. But if she wanted to leave more than she wanted to be with me, it would break my heart but I'd settle for knowing that she would be safe and happy. I turned to speak to Peter and suddenly I was thrown to the ground by a blast of heat. I heard the explosion. When I got to my feet and looked around," Neal held his hand to his eyes but he could not stop the sob from tearing free or the tears that ran down his cheeks.

"Your honor," said Platz quietly from his seat. "We sympathize with Mr. Caffery but we would ask you to instruct him to contain his emotions in order to give a clear description of the events for the court's understanding."

"Mr. Caffery, do you need a minute?" asked the judge.

Neal called upon every trick he knew in his vast book which he usually used to convince his marks that a lie was the truth. Now he had to convince these people that a liar was telling the truth. His bag of tricks was empty.

He looked up, shook his head at the judge and continued tears in his voice, "When I looked around I saw that the plane was engulfed in flames."

"What happened then?" asked the prosecutor.

"I ran to her, I ran to try to save Kate, but Peter grabbed me and tried to hold me back. I broke free but Peter, Peter tackled me just before there was another explosion. If he hadn't, I'd probably have been caught by the flames. He saved my life. I must have blacked out then because I don't remember anything after that until I regained consciousness in the ambulance."

"And you're sure that Kate Moreau and another person, a man was on that plane."

"Yes, I'm positive. I saw both of them."

"And neither one or both of them got off before the explosion."

"No, if they had, I would have seen them on the runway. They were on the plane."

"Thank you Mr. Caffery," the prosecutor said as she sat back down.

"Bravo, bravo," suddenly Platz startled all, by standing up and clapping his hands. "Bravo, bravissomo," he said clapping harder, coming around the table approaching the witness stand. "That was a magnificent performance."

"Objection," said Magill.

He continued to clap, walking up to the stand in front of Neal, staring at him, clapping louder and louder, nearly in his face. "How can you object to that? It was spellbinding.

Platz stopped clapping but continued his diatribe. "They told me, Caffery is the best, he can con the white off rice but I didn't believe it until now. That was truly magnificent."

"I'm telling the truth," Neal said plaintively and was ignored.

"Your honor, objection."

"Oh yes, I definitely have an objection your honor. Here we have a criminal, a thief, a racketeer and a convicted forger, a man who has made a living out of lying. His mere presence in this hallowed hall of justice is an insult and he's attempting to break our hearts with his highly prejudicial fairytale of lost love. This confidence schemer is so convincing a liar he manipulated the Federal Bureau of Investigation's finest into setting him free. Now he is the only witness claiming that anyone was on that plane. He's a liar for whom truth is an inconvenient, meaningless abstract. How can anyone believe anything he says? I demand that his entire testimony be stricken from the record, that he be charged with perjury and since there is no evidence that anyone was even on that plane I further demand that the charge of murder against my client be dismissed."

"No, no you can't do that," Neal couldn't believe what was happening. "I'm telling the truth. Kate was on that plane. She was on that plane."

"Chambers, both of you!" said the judge. "Ms. Magill, take a moment to see to your witness."

Neal was astounded. He'd been prepared for a prolonged and brutal line of questioning about his past. Magill had gone over every possible attack. But Platz hadn't used that tactic at all and gone straight after his testimony. He couldn't believe that his eye witness account could be summarily dismissed just like that.

"Neal, I'll take care of it," said Magill as she handed him a glass of water she'd gotten from her table. "Just wait here and calm down." She left him there, and joined Platz who grinned smugly at Neal while holding the door open for Magill at the side of the Judge's bench, leaving Neal alone in the courtroom as Miller, led by the bailiff followed them into chambers.

Neal felt like a fool sitting in the witness stand in an empty courtroom, the only one not invited to the party. What was he doing here? Why was he trying to do this according to the law? Neal looked around at these, 'hallowed halls,' as Platz had called them. He remembered how just a few years ago he was convicted and sentenced in this very courtroom, of what to him seemed only an error in judgment. It wasn't that he hadn't beaten Stuart Gless's unbeatable bond, it was that Gless had suspected something was amiss and notified none other than Special Agent Peter Burke who was stalking Neal just as he went to redeem said bond without checking if he'd been followed.

Neal rarely bore a grudge but if he had, he'd have taken care of it without benefit of the law. Why bother to prove to others that someone was guilty when you knew who it was, when and why they did what they did?

But now, now when he was bound by so many rules and regulations he couldn't sneeze without his personal watchdog knowing about it, he had to testify against Kate's murderer, and of course, why should anyone believe him?

It only took five minutes before the bailiff led Miller out, followed by Platz and Magill. She did not look happy. Once the judge was seated Neal understood why.

"After hearing from both parties concerning Mr. Caffery's credibility, and taking into consideration that the last time he was before a judge, he jumped from that judge's chamber's window in a successful escape, I find that while I don't disbelieve Mr. Caffery's testimony here today, that testimony on its own, is not enough to hold another man over on capital charges. Since there is no other proof that a murder had been committed that charge is dismissed. Yes, Ms. Magill you are free to re-file once you establish proof."

Platz shot up to his feet, "You're honor in that case I'd like an immediate ruling on bail."

"Your client is still charged with a serious crime, Mr. Platz.. Mr. Miller is remanded until he can be arraigned tomorrow morning. Mr. Platz, see the clerk about the docket. I'm sure you know the procedure in your sleep. This hearing is adjourned."

Neal sat there stunned, watching the proceedings as the man who was accused of planting the bomb that killed Kate shook his attorney's hand, winked at Neal and was led out by the bailiff.

He was still sitting there when Magill walked over to him. "I'm sorry Neal, but Judge Kleiner agreed with putz, I mean Platz that your credibility was in question and since Peter already testified that his attention was focused on you, he can't verify that Kate was still in the plane. Platz is also putting doubt in Peter's credibility because he trusted you. With the evidence pouch of the explosive device, and passenger manifest and flight plan missing, there's no proof anyone was on that plane when it exploded. No remains were ever found. The good news is there won't be any charge of perjury because though he doesn't trust your credibility he also feels that while you might have seen Kate on that plane, she could have left when your back was turned and so there's no evidence that you knowingly lied."

"So they don't believe I'm capable of telling the truth, even to myself and Peter is a fool for having anything to do with me and Kate's murder walks out of here a free man. Have I got that about right, Ms. Magill?"

She nodded. "There's still the charge of destruction of an aircraft but without any other proof, even that may be dropped. I'm sorry Neal. If we had any physical evidence at all, Miller would have taken his well deserved place on death row." She walked back to the desk and gathered her things, "I told you when we started this; it's always a gamble when we use a convicted felon as a witness."

Neal's head was bent and his shoulders slumped as he remained sitting in the witness stand as Magill passed Peter coming in from the double doors in the back. "Neal? Neal, why are you just sitting there? What happened? No one will tell me a damn thing.

Neal slowly raised his head towards his friend and Peter took a sudden step back. He'd never seen Neal so angry. He'd hardly seen Neal ever angry at all. But now, the depth of pain on Neal's face was frighteningly unbearable to look at.

Neal stood up and walked past Peter, out of the oak courtroom doors, down the marble vaulted hallway to the men's room.

Once inside he gripped his hands to try and stop their shaking, then washed off the sweat from his palms, cupped some water into his hand to drink, splashed some water on his face and took a deep breath. Neal looked at himself in the mirror, usually an enjoyable activity for the self admitted vain man. But this time what he saw was a reflection he could not bear. It was that of a man whose lies were believed without question but whose truth was destroyed by his character. He had failed at taking care of the one woman he'd vowed to keep safe. He was still shackled, more by his own sense of duty and loyalty than by plastic and electrons to a man who had put him in prison, while the monster who murdered his girlfriend walked out soon to be a free man. The anger, frustration and pain roiled in his stomach and rose up through him until it grabbed his lungs and squeezed, forcing howls of anguish out of his throat and he howled and howled, screaming out his pain, his anger and his guilt. Before he realized what he was doing, he hauled back and with all his strength, punched his reflection in the mirror where his face would be. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you" he screamed, and screamed.

Peter had been barely able to catch up with Neal, unusual since Neal's shorter stride forced him to nearly dance along to keep up with the agent when they walked. He had just reached the hall when he saw Neal enter the men's room. But when he got there, the sounds he heard brought his caution to bear and he peeked into the room. He was shocked as he watched the violence of his friend's pent up emotions overtake him. Though Peter was taller, heavier, and stronger and trained, he knew there was no way he could subdue his friend in the state he was in, without causing him some injury and himself as well.

Peter quietly closed the door and took station, smiling sternly but politely at any one wanting to enter the men's room and pointed them down the hall to another facility.

Neal screamed as he went from mirror to mirror, driving his hand into the glass reflection of himself, and then every other reflection he could find. "You're not good enough. You're a liar. No one can trust you. You're worthless." he cried finally as he ran out of steam, _Kate was right to never really trust me, but a fool to love me."_

Out in the hallway, Peter could hear nothing more but silence from the men's room. A moment later Neal came sauntering out, some paper towels, already streaked with his blood, wrapped around his hand.

"You okay?" Peter asked astonished at the nearly instantaneous change in demeanor.

Neal nodded the congenial, handsome, charming and smiling conman façade fully cemented in place. "I had a little accident, nothing serious but we should contact the building manger so I can pay for the damages."

"Yeah, okay, but we better have that hand looked at first."

Neal looked down, startled at the blood soaked toweling.

"It's nothing, it doesn't even hurt."

Peter stared at him, incredulous. His hand should be killing him.

"Peter," Neal said with a laughing lilt to his voice, "tell me again why we are working so hard to uphold the law."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

One month ago:

He was beautiful, the way he moved, the expression on his face, a live representation of the statue he was creating.

Agent Fowler stood in the corner of the expensively furnished dark wood paneled room, feeling uncomfortable at the way his superior, seated as his desk, his back to Fowler, watched the surveillance DVD he had taken of Neal Caffery five months ago, when Caffery was making preparations to steal the amber music box unknowingly for this man.

"He's a calligrapher, a draftsman, a cartographer, a painter, a sculptor, an amazing renaissance artist."

"Don't you mean an amazing con-artist?"

The man barely spared a glace back at his minion, who he owned, almost as completely if not as legally, as Caffery was owned by Special Agent Peter Burke.

"His copy of Chiarissimo D'Antonio Fancelli' study, una Statua di Vulcano is breathtaking. I've seen the original in Prato delle Colonne. This reproduction of his has better form, it takes on the life of the man creating it. It's tragic that he made it only to destroy it in the theft."

"Caffery is a forger, nothing more."

The man was becoming more exasperated with his agent, not only for his attitude but for his incompetence. "Fowler, you are nothing more than what I choose to allow you to become, but Caffery, I see why Agent Burke has such faith in him, faith that despite what you consider to be your best efforts you were unable to destroy."

Fowler shrugged, "I hadn't counted on Burke's wife befriending the felon. I had Burke believing Caffery was guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt until her machinations on Caffery's behalf gave him time to win back Burke's trust. But I was able to use her to get Burke out of the picture the last time and got you what you wanted. I used Caffery to get the box, I used him again to find out why your associate wants the box and I gave you back the box again. You said once you had it, it would be over."

"Yes, I did, but now the chess pieces of the world have shifted. It took too long to obtain the music box in the first place, and it was an error in judgment for me to retain it attempting to find out why it was wanted. Others wanted it merely because it was wanted by me. I sent it off, but now, I must renege. I want the music box back and this time, I want Caffery as well. You'll get him so ensnared so that he has no choice but to do my bidding and then you'll be free."

"How do you expect me to do that?"

The man turned around. The expression on his face was one Fowler would do anything to avoid seeing in the future, anything to win his freedom. He had his answer.

Present

It was just one week later, his hand still lightly bandaged and a certified check in the mail for damages sent to the city, that Neal feigned calm as he loaded one bullet into the Glock 22 .40S&W, spread his legs, and bounced on the balls of his feet for a moment to find a steady and balanced stance. Then he rolled his shoulders, shook his arms out, and stretched his neck back and forth with a few more foot bounces.

"Will you stop playing around?" Peter said with a frown.

"I'm just trying to get into it," smiled Neal.

"Into what," asked Peter.

"The whole Dirty Harry thing. You know, 'Make my day.'" Neal did in a bad imitation of Clint Eastwood.

Peter's attempt to suppress his laugher came out as a growl, "Trust me, you're into it. Now shoot."

"Spoilsport," Neal mumbled. He held the gun with his weaker hand supporting the bottom of the weapon and held his elbow straight. His stronger hand was wrapped around the grip, just like he'd seen Peter do it and all the other agents, as well as police officers who'd held a gun on him in the past.

He raised the gun and carefully aimed the weapon at the target at the end of the aisle, of the Department of Justice mutual force firing range, took a deep breath, held it, squeezed the trigger and shot. The sound, even through the ear protectors, startled him, again, causing him to jerk the weapon and the pain from his arm pushing into his side from the recoil caused him to drop the gun. The bullet went wild and he nearly shot the target one aisle over. Chuckles, snide remarks and jokes he'd heard echoing in the large basement room, from some of the other people on the range, only added to his mortification. He liked to be in control, especially of how people reacted to him. After all for most of his life it had been how he'd made his living by schooling his actions to generate specific reactions. This whole gun experience was just the latest in major blows to his self image he'd been experiencing.

"Hey Burke, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Peter stiffened as Neal looked around him to see Special Agent Ruiz stomping over.

"What does it look like?" Peter maintained his stance between Ruiz and Neal only to get roughly shoved aside.

"Where did you hide the weapon you were holding, Caffery. Don't try to lie to me. I saw you with it."

Neal looked down at the floor and Ruiz followed his gaze and took a step back as, with a grunt of pain, Neal bent and used just two fingers to grab the barrel and pick up the gun.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, trying to conceal a firearm?," he swung around to face Peter, "Burke you're going too far."

"I'm not breaking any laws," said Neal, though he put the pistol down on the shelf at his practice station.

Ruiz swung around again to face Neil, "The hell you're not."

"Back off, Ruiz," said Peter, moving between the two men again. "He dropped the gun, you idiot. Besides, it's not even loaded."

"What is he doing with a gun in the first place?"

"Considering how often Neal has been put out in the field, completely unarmed and had guns pointed at him, we thought it would be a good idea for him to have more than a passing familiarity.

"And by 'we' do you mean Caffery and you, or Caffery, you and Hughes?"

"You think I'd be here without Hughes' approval?" asked Neal.

Ruiz glared at Neal, "That's just the type of con man answer I'd expect from a two bit liar like you," Ruiz moved around Peter and got in Neal's face.

"Hughes approved it, Ruiz," Peter said, pushing his arm between the two men. "Now back off," Peter said in a low voice, "or I'll report you for interfering in a consultant's operational training," Peter hissed.

Ruiz stomped off and Peter shot an annoyed look at him as he turned back to his friend, seeing Neal with a rebellious look on his face absently rubbing his side. "Neal, are you still experiencing pain there? Let me take a look," he said concerned as he reached to lift up Neal's shirt.

Neal, already upset over the accusations was sick to death of being coddled and pulled away, angrily. "I'm fine, Peter. It's just a twinge. Just show me what I'm doing wrong."

The list of what Neal was doing wrong was growing exponentially in Peter's mind since Kate's murder, not the least of which was his begging Peter to teach him to shoot a gun. Peter thought this was a lousy time for Neal to acquire a taste for firearms, but attributed it to his way of dealing with what had been done to him when he'd been kidnapped a few months ago. Besides Peter knew that if he didn't help Neal, the con-man would find a less legal and more dangerous way to get what he wanted.

Knowing he was not going to get further with his charge, Peter explained. "You startled at the recoil and you didn't lock your elbow, that was the only thing I think you were doing wrong. The Weaver stance is the best one to use for beginners and a lot of us keep with it because it's steadier. But if you startle and you don't lock your elbow, the recoil can break the position of your supporting arm, swinging it back and causing a corresponding twist. If you're still sore there, it probably felt like your muscles ripped. If I'd known you were still hurting, I'd have suggested the basic stance."

Frustrated at himself, Neal hissed in pain as he pulled the left side of his shirt out of his pants, exposing some residual yellow and green bruising. While he'd mostly healed from the injuries he incurred months before, including being repeatedly kicked in the ribs, there was some very deep bruising that just seemed to linger on and was easily re-injured.

"How about the basic? What do I have to do?" Neal asked, his tone demanding with an angry look on his face, more determined than ever to master the use of the weapon.

"No time now," Peter said looking at his watch, "We have to get back to the office."

Neal looked like he was about to argue. Peter stood, silent, waiting and implacable.

Finally Neal took a deep breath and stopped himself. Since his experience two months ago he'd been finding deep reserves of residual adolescent behavior which he'd been generously doling out to Mozzie, Elizabeth and Peter at every turn. It was not something he was proud of.

"I'm sorry, Peter, I appreciate this. I know how close to the line this type of training is for me. I know a lot of people in the office don't trust me to have access to a loaded gun and how much you've had to fight with Hughes to get permission. I don't want to cause you any more trouble than I already have."

"You're not causing me any trouble," Peter lied. Neal was causing him a lot of trouble; that was Neal. But Peter was willing to do anything to keep Neal from committing a crime and help him learn to live his life on the right side of the law, even if it meant teaching him how to use a gun.

Turning to secure the weapon and the safety equipment he'd been issued, Neal removed the clip and checked to make sure the chamber was empty. Neglecting that had almost cost him his life months earlier. However the exercise was merely for practice because, due to his legal status he was only trusted with one bullet in the gun at a time as a security precaution, and he could not shoot the gun unless Peter was present. They were nothing but useless stupid rules that wouldn't stop any homicide intent idiot and were put in place merely to give the public the illusion that they were being protected and that guns were safe only as long as they were in the hands of their guardians against crime. All a bunch of hogwash, but life was just filled with challenges.

A few minutes later, while driving the Taurus, through the hectic noonday New York City traffic, Neal's uncharacteristic silence was eating at Peter's nerves. Neal wasn't even playing with the radio or the 'map thing,' or even side seat driving. He felt like Neal was a time bomb about to go off while Peter was doing his best searching in the dark to find the fuses and disarm the charge. He knew that all it took to set Neal off was a challenge and the restrictions that were put in place for him to learn to shoot a gun were a big fat sign to Neal that flashed "challenge, challenge, challenge." Of course, it would never occur to Neal that the usual rules were being bent almost to the breaking point specifically for him because Peter and even Hughes, for the most part, trusted Neal Caffery, and no other convicted felon, to not be one of those homicidal intent idiots.

After about 10 minutes, Peter couldn't take it. "So tell me," he tried in as friendly a tone as he could manage, "I don't understand how you can shoot skeet like a sniper and be such a klutz when it comes to handguns."

Neal slowly turned his head, pulled from his thoughts of squeezing the trigger on those complicate in Kate's murder. "As I've told you, I'm not a gun guy."

Peter just stared at him with that look, which made Neal feel like he'd been interrogated for hours, though Peter hadn't said a word.

"Okay," he said, resigned to just getting it over with instead of enduring the non-interrogation interrogation technique any longer than he had to, "When I was in college, a classmate invited me to his father's estate one summer. They were really into skeet and I let them teach me just to be polite. But all that meant was I learned how to chamber the two rounds, call, aim and shoot. They were rich, they had 'people'," Neal held up his hands to surround the word with quotes, "to maintain the weapons so that was the extent of the firearms training."

Peter nodded his head. It was a plausible explanation as far as it went and for the most part probably true. But he knew that while Neal rarely told him an out an out lie, he would often obfuscate. However, where or how he learned and didn't learn was not what had been bothering Peter. It didn't take a genius to figure out why Neal wanted to learn to shoot a pistol. Every chance he got, Peter would study Neal's face, trying to read him, hoping that if he knew what was going on in Neal's head he could keep him from throwing his life away, again.

"What?" Neal finally caught Peter's stare.

"You know what."

"No I don't."

"Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Yes, I guess you do."

Peter pressed his lips together to give himself a moment to gather his thoughts,

"You spent a week researching the law to figure out how you could twist the regulations concerning security and safety for consultants in the field so that you can be taught to shoot."

"I'm a law abiding citizen now and following the letter of the law. I wouldn't want to break the laws of this city, state or country or abuse the system, in any way Agent Burke."

"Despite the fact that through those machinations you can legally be taught to shoot, you're a convicted felon and so you will not be able to get a gun permit."

"True."

"Without a permit you won't be able to legally buy a weapon.'

"Also true."

"Even if you weren't a convicted felon, the agency wouldn't issue you a weapon without a permit and without going through a complete and extensive firearms and weapons course."

"I know that."

"So tell me you're not planning on illegally obtaining a weapon."

"I'm not planning on illegally obtaining a weapon," yet, Peter could hear that unspoken word in Neal's mind as loud as if he'd said it.

"Damn it, Neal. You know you're letting him win. No matter whom the bastard behind this whole god damn mess is, you're playing right into his hands."

"I just want to learn so I can protect myself," Neal said.

"Yeah? What happened to that little speech about it not taking any imagination to use a gun or a knife?"

"It doesn't, it's simple, it's easy, it's expedient, any moron can do it, and most do. It's seems to be the method of choice to deal with dangerous situations. I just …"

"Don't," Peter held up a finger to stop him. "You always start with a lie; it's a hard habit to break. But if you won't be honest with me, at least be honest with yourself."

"I just…"

"No, I know you want to kill the guy and I agree he deserves killing. But be truthful about what doing this will do to you. You're not a gun guy. That's admirable. Shooting someone will a gun, killing someone will change you in ways you can't anticipate and you'll lose a part of yourself, a part that's noble, a characteristic that sets you apart, and for what? Killing the bastard won't bring Kate back but it will make you a murderer and it will break my heart and El's heart but I will catch you and I'll send you back to prison and that might as well be a death sentence. Neal, if Kate loved you the way you are so sure she did, would she want you to kill and die for her or would she want you to live for her?"

Neal paused a moment. He'd been struggling with questions just like that since Kate had managed to get loose long enough to meet with Peter but not with him. All he said was, "Are you done with your lecture?"

"As if you ever hear a word I say."

"I heard that you think I'm noble." Neal grinned.

"Except for the ones you want to hear. You're missing my point."

"Well, you missed the turn off into the underground garage."


	3. Chapter 3

I won't be able to post tomorrow so I am posting this today. The next post will be on Sunday.

Chapter III

Peter held the glass door to the FBI offices open for Neal noting the rigid control he was exercising over his expression. Butter would not melt in the con man's mouth as he heard the news in the elevator that Troy Miller was out on bail. Neal calmly and quietly went to his desk in the bullpen, unusually busy for this time of day, and threw his hat down on the desk with only the slightest bit of force, knocking some slips of paper onto the floor and turned to his computer, looking for all the world like he was deep into his work.

Thinking of how he was going to keep Neal out of getting himself into some serious trouble, Peter startled when Agent Clinton Jones stopped from him from going to his office with a touch to his arm. "Hughes said he signed for a T level security clearance package for you and he's keeping it in his office safe. He said you're to come find him as soon as you get in."

Peter started off to find Hughes when he felt Neal following him and swiftly turned around. "No."

Neal almost bumped into him, "What?" Neal said loudly his eyes wide with false innocence.

Everyone in the area slowed down what they were doing at Neal's raised voice. Some looked up at what was going on, others, just passed by their attention focused on their own tasks.

"Neal its T level security clearance, that means not you," Peter said poking Neal in the chest with each word.

Neal blanked for a moment, a flush of humiliation washing through him at the public reprimand, but then smiled genially. "Oh, yeah, okay, sure, I know my place," he laughed.

"I wish," Peter looked at the ceiling as he rushed off, climbing the stairs to Hughes office two at a time.

"He can't tell anyone Neal, even Hughes, don't take it personally."

Jones was getting far too perceptive, but he was only half right, Neal wasn't taking it personally, he agreed that Peter should not trust him, it would be stupid to do so. He pretty much proved to himself that he wasn't worthy of the trust of anyone especially the only person he ever trusted. He had brought it on himself, he'd have to live with it, but it was a bitter pill.

"So tell me, how'd firearms training go?" asked Jones, talking a seat on the corner of Neal's desk.

Neal briefly debated what he should tell Jones, how he could use any misinformation. But then he heard Peter's voice drifting down from the open door of Hughes office. If the members of the team thought he was proficient, it could cost them their lives. "I provided the morning comedy routine. I dropped the gun and couldn't hit the target." He waited for the ribbing he was sure would come.

But that was not Clinton Jones style. He just chuckled, "That's nothing. I almost broke my finger the first time I loaded a gun. Got it caught in the action and that's supposed to be impossible. Wow did that hurt. That was after I tried to put the clip in backwards and dropped all the bullets. They wouldn't let me near the firing range again until I repeated all the class work. If all you did is drop it, you're ahead of the game."

Neal smiled at that and plopped back down in his chair, not noticing the slip of paper on the floor.

"Hey, Neal," Jones picked it up and handed it to him. "Somebody must have left this phone message for you when you were out. If it's one of your super model friends, let me know if she has a sister."

"Will do," Neal chuckled and read the note.

"Please come home when you get this, June."

In the year he'd been renting the loft from June, she'd never left him a message. The casualness of the words did not belay the urgency for Neal. He was out the door before Jones could suggest he tell Peter he was going.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

After Peter signed the security receipt for the package for Hughes, he checked in with office security for the day's key card for the specially insulated room which could not be bugged and which had an isolated computer that was offline and used strictly for viewing high security documents.

When he opened the package there was a sealed business envelope, which when he opened it he found held nothing more than a thumb drive and a letter from Special Agent Diana Berrigan.

"Hi Boss,

Please excuse the cloak and dagger but I didn't want to take any chances. I've only got some of the files decrypted but I had to get this information to you quickly because word is Fowler left for New York an hour ago. I don't know of any reason he'd have to go except Project Mentor and when you read this. you'll see the need for the urgency and security.

The thumb drive has all the documents which will back up what I'm summarizing here.

PM is the baby of Dwight McMurphy, the Tephlon spymaster. It's legitimate, but it's all on paper, a lot of plans, a lot of unallocated funds and one 'asset', Neal. It looks like its sole purpose is to maneuver Neal into doing all of McMurphy unapproved suicidal and illegal ops. McMurphy coerced Fowler to use Kate to manipulate Neal into breaking out of prison. They wanted him on the run, afraid to trust anyone but Kate. That way Kate would emotionally isolate Neal and Fowler would control him through her.

But they had not planned on your friendship with Neal, you capturing him so quickly and then making that deal. They tried again with the Le Joyau Precieux's pink diamond, McMurphy was one of the few brass that knew of it, but that didn't work. The music box was and is the next attempt.

There's more. McMurphy gave the music box to Count Rudolph Armeni, yes, master of the floating mansion, the Regnum Atrus. Armeni needed it for a political coup but policies changed before he could use it. McMurphy wants it back but Armeni has another buyer and so McMurphy wants to use Neal to get the music box for him and he's not too picky about how that happens.

I'll get more info to you as we get it.

Good luck, and keep safe, and keep Neal safe until I get there.

Best,

Diana

P.S. Congratulate me, my transfer papers came through.

Peter put down the letter and scanned the documents. What he read made him wish he'd never caught Neal in the first place. Neal was a convicted felon; he deserved punishment for the crimes he'd commented and a lot more than the four years he'd gotten for the one act of forgery they'd been able to prove. But there was no way he deserved this. There was an extensive psychological profile of Neal with detailed instructions on how to manipulate him, or more to the point, how to break him. There were dozens of pages of planned, nearly impossible suicidal operations, each one building on top of the previous one designed to make McMurphy a much more powerful man than he already was. Each one would necessitate Neal perform some 'sanctioned' deed, which could be un-sanctioned and McMurphy's whim. The operations would pull Neal deeper and deeper into isolation and fear until he would be totally dependent on McMurphy. Neal would be free of the tracker but imprisoned in every other way outside of walls.

By the end of the afternoon, Peter had a clearer picture of how Neal's life had been orchestrated from the time he had first gotten noticed by McMurphy, about a year after Peter started tracking him. If Peter had not caught Neal, he might have had a chance but once he was in prison, McMurphy arranged incidents, nothing overt, but just enough pressure at the right time and place to the point that when Kate said goodbye, a lesser man might have committed suicide. Psychologically, Neal's only option was to escape.

Kate was no innocent in all this, thinking she could play the player. That had just worked in McMurphy's favor. Yet she had no idea who'd she'd been dealing with and had gotten in way over her head.

Now another plot was in the works with Neal the primary player. In order to keep all of them safe, Peter had to come up with a way to help Neal without telling him why because of the security level. He already knew that was going to be a near impossible task. Securing the letter and the thumb drive, Peter walked into the bullpen only to see that Neal was not there.

Not wanting to trust phones considering how often his seemed to get bugged at the mere thought of Fowler, he ran up to his office to check Neal's tracker on his computer. He just hoped that he could get to Neal before it was too late.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Of all the people Neal did not expect to see when he entered June's Riverside Drive mansion, OPR Agent Garret Fowler was probably at the top of the list.

He was there with just one other agent, both sitting with June at her dining room table, sipping coffee and nibbling on cookies and actually discussing the weather as Neal slowly walked down the ornate entry way to the rear of the house. "Caffery," Fowler called out jovially as if he had spotted a long lost friend. He got up, walked over and put his arm around Neal's shoulders, squeezing just hard enough for it to be painful. "Glad you could get here so soon. We need to talk."

"Garret Fowler," he smiled his widest grin, "as I live and breath. I take it you're here to see that I don't do either for too much longer?" Neal said as he shook loose of the grip.

"Now, is that anyway to talk?"

Neal shot him a dirty look before rushing over to where June was sitting and crouched down so that he was at eye level, taking her cold hands in his, "June, are you alright?"

"Of course, I'm fine, dear," she said in her normal voice but whispered, "now that you're here," June smiled weakly.

There were few things that could rattle June, but Neal could tell by her eyes that this unexpected visit was one of them. Whatever Fowler did or said to Neal's benefactress to upset her, Neal would find a way to make him pay. He stood, up, smiling again, "We can talk upstairs," he said and led the men to his loft apartment.

Once Neal opened the door Fowler followed by his 'friend' walked in and wasted no time in walking around, picking up books, shuffling papers, snooping around, making messes where before there was order.

Neal gently closed the door, took off his hat and hung it on the rack, walked around the agents as they riffled through his artwork and supplies, poured himself some juice from his refrigerator, and plopped down on his couch as he if were alone.

"Just make yourselves at home," he said slipping off his shoes, grabbing the remote, putting his feet up on his coffee table and switching the television to a game, something he could easily pretend to watch while keeping all his other senses trained on Fowler.

He saw Fowler and his friend exchange glances and with a nod the friend walked over to Neal pulled a folder from where he'd held it under his coat and tipped its contents on Neal's coffee table, dozens of glossy eight by tens of Neal and visitors to his home.

Neal his expression remaining friendly and unaffected, bent over the photographs, spreading them out on the table.

Since he'd lived at June's, Neal could count the number of guests he'd had on one hand and scanning the photos, he was grateful that none of the visitors had been of the intimate variety yet it was obvious someone had gotten their jollies watching him.

He leaned back, feigning a yawn, "I really have to remember to put drapes up on that window," he said gesturing towards the French doors leading out to the terrace.

Fowler came and stood over him. "It wouldn't matter. Our equipment can penetrate most types."

Neal picked up one picture of himself, completely in the buff, taken at night. The fact that pictures had been taken of him and his visitors in his home without his knowledge made him feel creepy but this made him feel violated.

"Hm," he took the nude picture of himself and moved it back and forth to catch the different angles of light from outside, then walked over to his mirror in his bedroom and twisted around as if to check out his own ass comparing it to the picture, "do I look fat to you?" he asked Fowler's henchman.

"You know walking around naked where people can see you is against the law," said Fowler.

Neal did a double take. "So is voyeurism."

"I just want you to feel safe and secure, Neal. I thought that knowing that you are constantly under surveillance, for your own protection of course would ensure that. We don't want what happened to Kate to happen to you."

Neal struggled to keep his game face on when all he wanted to do was slam his fist into Fowler's mouth. "And of course, a peeping tom stationed in a building two blocks away has already proved to be real helpful when a killer was already waiting for me in the room," Neal threw down a photo of Pierce Spellman waiting for him, sitting at his kitchen table with a gun in plain sight.

Fowler just shrugged, his smirk intensifying. "I've got a mission for you, one I think you'll like."

Neal dumped the picture back on the coffee table and reseated himself on his couch. "I'm working with Special Agent Burke at White Collar. I know I made that clear when you last tried to manipulate me into working for you."

"I think you have that wrong, Neal. You work for me and are only on loan to White Collar until or unless we need your services," Fowler took a seat in one of the chairs facing Neal.

"No, the way I remember it, I'd spent a month in the hospital recovering from your last op and then was unknowingly dangled as bait and experienced a lovely night being tortured because of your next failed op. You blamed me and were going to send me back to prison when I pulled your chestnuts out of the fire. Then you offered me a real job with OPR. I think I said go to hell, or maybe, yes, I remember, when prosciutto can be caught with butterfly nets. Yes, that was it but go to hell works just as well."

"You gave me the music box. You accepted the deal I made with Kate. You're working for me."

"I quit."

"Then we'll give you a ride back to prison."

"That threat's getting kind of old Fowler. You want to send me back; do it. I'd probably last no more than a day but I'd prefer a shiv in the back to getting killed working for you. It might take longer but the end result would be the same and probably a whole lot less painful."

"Relax, Neal. I swear, it won't be as bad as last time. You won't be bait; it's just an simple undercover op, more like a con than anything else, right up your alley."

"If it's so simple, use one of your own agents."

"It requires the special Neal Caffrey touch."

Neal grinned, "Appealing to my vanity, Fowler. You know I love flattery," Neal dropped the smile, "but I love my life more, No."

"It will only take you a week and then I promise, we won't bother you again."

"Neal knew the only way to get them to leave was to listen to what they wanted. "Does Peter know about this?"

"Burke isn't a part of this but I'm sure you'll accept this errand I've got for you."

"Why is that?"

"Because we're sending you after the man who ordered Kate's death."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Mozzie huffed in exhaustion as he plopped down on Neal's couch and carefully set down a recyclable shopping bag on the coffee table. It was filled with every DVD he could find featuring a butler, man servant, gentleman's gentlemen, general factotum and estate manager, however one called it.

Mozzie called it "a domestic slave of the imperialistic elite."

"You've got them?" Neal said, anxiously pulling the disks out of the bag. "Mozzie, The Addams Family?" he said in exasperation as he held up the complete set of the TV series.

"What? Lurch was an exceptional butler and totally under appreciated. Besides, you never told me why you want them so I got an assortment. I've got all the Batman movies, 'A Family Affair,' 'Tomb Raider,' seven seasons of 'Magnum P.I.,' Higgins was always my favorite character, ' Upstairs, Downstairs,' 'the Admirable Crichton,' 'Mr. Belvedere,' 'Soap,' 'Benson' and even 'Remains of the Day'. I couldn't find 'Dying to Please' but that has a woman butler, most unusual even in this day and age.

"Let's start with Batman. I've always liked Alfred," Neal frowned in concentration as he fiddled with the DVD with nervous fingers, taking an unusually long time to set the disk ready to play.

"Not surprising," said Moz as he watched Neal with concern.

"Want some popcorn while we watch?" Neal asked moving to the microwave.

"Sure," Mozzie had seen Neal through a lot of cons, heists and gigs. He'd been eager, determined and focused, but always filled with joy at a new challenge to test himself against. But Neal had never been grim and certainly not secretive. He had never gotten Mozzie involved in anything, even in a peripheral manner, like fetching movies, without first giving him a full briefing and the opportunity to back out. 'Get me every DVD with a butler you can think of,' with no further explanation did not qualify as normal Neal behavior.

"Neal, what aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing!" Neal sounded affronted, a sure tell as he put drummed his fingers waiting for the popcorn to pop.

"Neal, I'm not the suit so stop treating me like him. What's going on?"

"What makes you think anything's going on?

"Because you're answering a question with a question."

"I just want to see some movies about butlers," Neal was in full defensive mode. He dumped the popcorn in a bowl and came back and sat next to Moz on the couch.

"Planning a career move?"

Neal did not answer immediately, meaning he hadn't even thought his cover story out. This was bad. "June asked me to interview some applicants for the position."

"Ah, hah. There is something going on. June has had the same housekeeper for years and when I suggested a butler she said she wouldn't know what to do with one."

Neal smiled but it was still a facade. "Okay, Moz, you've got me, it's for a job," he leaned back and relaxed against the couch, "let's just watch the movie. I know it's better than 'Tiles of Fire.'"

It was a nice try at distraction, insulting one of Moz' favorite movie series. It didn't work. Neal didn't call it a heist, or a con, an op, a case or an investigation, but a job; this was bad. "Is the suit involved?"

"No, why, are you jealous?" Neal never was so childish as to play Peter against Moz and for him to do so now rang every alarm bell Moz had.

"Neal, tell me what's going on," Mozzie's voice was rising in exasperation.

Neal looked at him with a full innocent expression on his face yet at the look Moz gave him he finally dropped the pretense. "It's too dangerous."

Moz eyes widened and his voice rose into the higher octaves. "Fencing and hiding your stolen goods isn't dangerous? Conning psycho murders who kill people with their bare hands for fun isn't dangerous? Hiding out from mobsters who want to get even isn't dangerous? Doing favors for you for your F.B.I. masters isn't dangerous?"

"Please Moz, I've got to do this on my own."

"Neal,"

"Moz."

Neal was not stupid. Neal was protective of his friends. But Neal had lost a lot in the past months. If Moz didn't know any better, Neal sounded like he didn't expect this job to end well. So why do it? And then he saw his face staring up at him from the coffee table.

Picking up pictures of himself, Peter and Elizabeth Burke, Alex and two women he didn't know, one with a gun, as well as a few of June, her granddaughters and her housekeeper, Mozzie knew there was just one person who would be doing this.

"Fowler's got his clutches into you, hasn't he?"

Neal rolled his eyes. "Moz." He got up and walked over to the French Doors looking out at the city.

"Neal, please, we'll run. I'll help you. You know I will. He'll never be able to find you."

Neal's shoulders slumped, his head hanging and shaking for a moment, "There's no place he won't find me," he hopelessly muttered only just loud enough that Mozzie heard him. But then Neal straightened and squared his shoulders again and looked at his friend. "Moz, it's not that, really. This job I have to do and I have to do it alone. You can't be a part of it."

"Do you have any back up?"

"Fowler said, yes."

"And you trust him?"

"No but it doesn't matter this time."

"Why?"

Neal looked down. Mozzie knew that classic tell and that Neal was so upset he couldn't even control it. He was going to lie but hadn't come up with one that he thought Mozzie would accept. This was bad. Mozzie felt sick with realization. "No, Neal, I don't care what it is, it's not worth it."

"It's worth it to me."

"I never thought I'd say this but I'm calling the suit."

"Mozzie, please, you can't do that. He can't know."

"Why?"

"Because he'll try to stop me."

"No, he won't but he will help you." Both men turned towards the door startled to see Peter, standing there, his long tan trench coat settling around him looking to Mozzie for all the world like every super hero savior there was, just landed from his flight over to save the day.

"I never thought I'd be grateful to see an F.B.I. agent at the door," Mozzie said at Peter's unexpected appearance.

"What do you know?" asked Neal, looking a bit relieved despite himself.

"I know what they want you to do. I know why they want you to do it alone. I can't stop you from going and I won't waste my time trying. But at least I can transfer this operation to the auspices of my team and make sure it's a legal op and properly run with support and backup and an exit strategy so that just maybe we can get you back alive."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV

Mozzie, the resident expert on being able to blend in, refusing to set foot in hell, better known as the F.B.I. New York offices, watched Neal from the corner of the Burke's dinning room as Peter and Neal had commandeered the location for training and briefing for the upcoming mission.

Neal smiled fondly at Elizabeth, held out her chair for her and then, with a twinkle in his eye sauntered over to Peter to do the same for him. Neal, attired in a tux and tails, looked dashing as he stood back in a pose that would put any Marine drill sergeant to shame, his eyes bright, his grin wide, awaiting further instructions as all eyes were on him.

"You're dead. Neal, this is never going to work," said Moz, shaking his head as both the Burkes and Neal stopped their play acting.

"Why, what did I do wrong?"

"An easier question to answer would be what did you do right? The answer would be nothing," said Mozzie totally exasperated.

"I don't' understand."

"How could you? Do you even know how to spell 'humility'?

Neal looked as if he'd been insulted. "I can be humble."

Peter smirked barely hiding a chuckle, one that was more openly shared with Elizabeth.

Mozzie rolled his eyes, "Neal, you can't just act humble. Anyone whose been served by butlers in the past are going to spot that a mile away. You've got to be humble; it's not like a con. You've got to think James Stevens. Forget Alfred or Mr. French or Mr. Belvedere, they'd be a dead give-a-way. Real butlers subdue their personalities to the service of their employers and you can't help but project yours even when you're playing a con."

"Yeah, that is a problem," said Peter as if he were remembering other days.

"And you'd know this because, Mr. Suit."

Peter sported one of his rare full grins knowing he'd bested his consultant and even the short guy, again. "I know this because while I haven't earned a living as a butler, I did bus tables through college and law school and earned extra money as a waiter at some of the fraternity and faculty parties at Yale and even picked up some gigs to serve at a few high society charity functions and celebrations. I was so good, I got a job offer to work at 'bespoke'."

Elizabeth nodded, surprised. "Wow, honey, I'm impressed. Maybe you could work my next event," she smiled.

Peter chuckled, "Not a chance, if I learned anything from the job it was that I didn't want to be a waiter, they have to work way too hard for shit money and take way too much crap. You have to be there with the trays of drinks, the platters of hors d'oeurevs and canapés, before anyone knows they're hungry or thirsty, but then you have to slip away, as if you were never there. You have to act like you did not hear anything that was not directed to you and were blind to anything that didn't concern serving the food yet anticipate everyone's needs. Hold the tray and take orders. Be invisible. Actually it was pretty good training for covert intelligence gathering."

"Yeah, he's got it," said Moz. "Why can't you be the butler then?"

"Because while I'm good, Neal has an encyclopedic knowledge about stolen artwork, he has a sophisticated palate for food and wine and…" Peter mumbled the rest of what was needed.

"What was that Peter," Neal beamed.

"Armeni's butler doubles as his 'Gentleman's gentleman,' a personal servant who manages his clothing and appearance each day."

"Oh, that explains it," said Moz.

"I wouldn't talk if I were you," said Peter eyeing Moz's unfitted suit.

"Even Hughes laughed at the notion," said Neal.

"Yeah, he did. But no one's going to be laughing if you end up dead," everyone in the room sobered at Peter's remark. "Armeni is so dangerous we haven't even tried to place anyone on that ship for a year. The last agent we planted as a man servant ended up," Peter paused for a moment his face showing his distress, "well, he was dead."

"Nice incentive to learn humility," said Neal.

"Look, Neal, if you don't think you can do this, tell us now," said Peter, "I've got this operation transferred to White Collar so Fowler has no authority here. It's a volunteer mission and there's no shame in turning down a dangerous assignment if you don't think you have the training or the skills to successfully carry it out."

"Yeah, and what, go back to prison because I breached my contract by refusing to help? I learned a lot about humility there."

"No, no, you didn't. Being humble is the other side of the universe from being humiliated and being subjected to humiliation. Its part of prison but it does no one any good and I'm sorry that that happened to you. But if that experience taught you anything it was that you learned that you don't want to go back."

"That's true, I don't and so I'll take the assignment."

Peter had noticed that ever since Kate was killed, Neal was always first in line to face danger. It wasn't quite a death wish, the man was far from reckless, but it made Peter nervous for his friend's well being. "No, you can refuse undercover assignments. Your contract only states that you have to consult with us and give us the benefit of your expertise. There's nothing that states you have to put your life at risk."

"Did Hughes know that when he sent me into China Town, does Fowler know that? Come on, Peter, you've sent me on one or two undercover assignments yourself where I nearly got killed. I know how tenuous my parole is. You remind me of it at least twice a day."

Peter looked a little shamed at that. "Peter, look, I know I'm not easy to keep in line. I get that. I know you've risked a lot and been working hard to give me every opportunity to make this chance work for me and I'm grateful for that." Neal put his hand on Peter's shoulder as he sat down next to him and caught his gaze, "If I refuse this assignment and get away with it, you know that only means that there will be more pressure to accept the next one and the one after that and those could always be worse."

"Neal, in all the jobs and cons and heists that I know you pulled and even those that I've only suspected, you've never had to play a part like this, and never with someone like Armeni. You were never a servant. Nick Haldon, George Devore, Steve Tabernacle, they were all suave, rich, sophisticated and definitely never subservient. Besides you're rotten at taking orders, and this guy is a psycho when it comes to obedience," said Peter. "He's gone through 10 butlers in as many months and a few didn't make it past the first few hours before they quit. A couple disappeared and three more, it was more like an escape than resignation. It's because of some of them that we have any idea of what's going on."

"Well, then, my experience at being humiliated and handling it should put me in good stead," said Neal.

Peter sighed; it was like talking to a brick wall, worse because a brick wall didn't try to catch your attention as you walked by to its brickness. However, belaboring the point wasn't going to make the job easier.

"If you get into trouble there, it's not going to be so easy to get out," he went on with the briefing.

"Why's that," said Elizabeth who'd been teaching Neal some of the finer points of dinnerware, flatware and which serving vessel to use with which dish.

"Because Count Rudolph Armeni, of no country anyone ever heard of, lives on a small luxury liner that he turned into a floating village, his own kingdom complete with royal accommodations for himself and his family. He resides beyond the three mile limit in international waters and rules the place like a tyrant according to some of his former staff.

"Aside from that he's got top of the line radar and sonar and so to allay his suspicion our support vessel will have to keep far enough away to be below the horizon. If you signal that you're in trouble, we have a full Marine detachment and F.B.I. assault team at the ready and it should take no more than five minutes in calm weather to get them to the ship to extract you. If it's rough seas, it could take a bit longer. You'll have to defend yourself and basically have no back-up."

"Peter, I can handle it. You've always said, my best weapon is my charm." At Peter's look of distress, Neal relented, "just kidding," he smiled.

Peter got up from the table and brought in some pieces of luggage from the kitchen as well as some boxes.

"What's that?"

"I've got some new toys for you."

"So we're going James Bond again, I love it," Neal fairly danced in his seat.

Peter sighed in exasperation and handed him a tie clip. "You know this one, it's a digital camera you can wear and snap photos of anything you see you think is stolen as well as any of Armeni's guests you think might be of interest to us."

Neal just nodded, taking it without comment while Peter pulled out a slim silver tube from his pocket, "This is a titanium pen."

"Really? A pen, how clever. It just looks like, a, a pen."

"Cut the crap, Neal. It's also a flashlight and it has one more unique feature." Peter held the pen out so Neal could see what he did. "If you tap the top firmly five times," a thin blade popped out of the top.

Neal looked at the thin blade in horror, "What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Defend yourself if necessary. Neal, you can't take a gun even if you had a permit. We don't know what you'll be facing there but Armeni is dangerous. Just two days ago you were learning how to use a gun at your insistence, what's the difference?

"You said it yourself; I was learning. I don't know how to use that any better than I can shoot a pistol."

"Neal you will take it with you. Armeni is a psychopath. Use it if you need to or don't use it, I don't care but you're going to take it or you're not getting on that ship."

Neal saw he wasn't going to win this one, "At least it's stylish," he said as he placed it in his pocket.

Peter picked up one of the suitcases, "We've disguised a transmitter to look like parts of your luggage so when they search you and it, and they will, they shouldn't be able to find anything. We have to be super cautious on this. First record your message on the micr-recorder which will turn it into a microburst. Then to transmit, just pick up the phone in your cabin press zero and play the recorder. The messages will piggyback on the transmissions from the ship which we'll be monitoring so no one will be able to trace a transmission to you. As far as receiving messages, we're giving you a special transistor radio. Again, the messages will be hidden as micro bursts on the music on the station its set to. To hear them, use this earplug and the message will be decoded. It's the best we can do given the situation. But if for some reason you can't transmit or receive, you have a back up."

Peter handed Neal a small photo of a middle aged man, slightly older than Peter, salt and pepper hair and a medium but neatly trimmed red brown beard. He was wearing a fisherman's cap. "Larry Green has been a CI for us for years. He's a good guy to have at your back. He operates a barge and was hired to bring supplies, mail, deliveries, and sometimes new employees to Armeni's ship, the Regnum Atrus every day."

"Regnum Atrus," Elizabeth exclaimed, "Dark Kingdom. You've got to be kidding me."

"I wish I were," said Peter. He turned back to Neal, "Part of your job will be to place orders with him and to check on the cargo he brings for the needs of Armeni's family. If you can't use the transmitter, you can pass a note to Larry."

"Got it"

"Neal, you're only there to observe, nothing more. No searches, no skulking around, nothing that would raise anyone's suspicion. If you don't see it in plain sight we can't use it in court and we need to build a solid court case. As soon as you spot anything that you know has been stolen, any sign of criminal activity, anything that will give us probable cause for an international warrant, record it and get off that ship. We'll be able to move as soon as we get any proof that there are stolen goods there. We already know what he's doing, we need proof that he's doing it, proof that his lawyers can't throw out of court.

"Also, and this is more important, Neal, you sense that he suspects anything, you get off that ship. We'll use what you've seen and heard to get the warrants and take him and his passengers into custody. You see anyone there who might recognize you, you get off that ship. You think that anyone is becoming suspicious of you, you get off that ship. If Armeni is," he paused, "if the bastard starts hurting you, get off the ship. Green will help you if you can't transmit. This is not worth your life."

"Isn't it, to get Kate's killer."

"And lose you," said Elizabeth. "No it's not."

Neal didn't agree with that, though he was grateful he had friends who thought that much of him. Thinking that, he knew that if the positions were reversed he would not want to sacrifice any of his friends for the sake of vengeance.

Neal clicked his heal, stood at attention and saluted, "Ma'am, yes, Ma'am."

"That's the military Neal. They don't do well if they're too humble. Pick a different icon."

It wasn't long after that Peter watched from his front door as Mozzie and Neal left in a cab for June's house. Elizabeth came up behind Peter, leaned against his back and hugged him tightly; lazily layering kisses against any bare skin she could reach on her tall husband's neck and shoulders. Peter took comfort from her embrace for a few moments before turning and hugged her back, enjoying the feel of her hair against his chin and her breath against his chest. He closed his eyes, just rocking her.

"You're worried about him," Elizabeth said.

"I'm always worried about him; it's a full time job keeping him out of trouble."

"Yes, but you're more worried about him taking this assignment than I've seen you before."

"Neal didn't want to see the photos of the agent who we found dead. He's always been squeamish about blood and dead bodies so I let it pass. But El, that man was a pro, he was tough, well trained, undercover work was his specialty, and he, he'd been, well as a result there's a question that he might have committed suicide.…" Peter trailed off, not wanting to upset his wife with a graphic description of the suffering the agent had endured. "We've told Neal how dangerous Armeni is, how ruthless and sadistic he's rumored to be but I don't think he gets it. You saw him, heard him. He's almost back from what he was before his ordeal, just as proud, confident and cocky as ever. If he was going in as an equal of Armeni, like a client or guest that would work for him but it wouldn't give him the run of the ship he'll have as Armeni's butler. Maybe if I insisted, maybe if he had seen."

"Honey, you said he can take care of himself,"

"I did say that. But as he said, his best weapon is his charm. Only if he tries to use that against Armeni, it will get him killed."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter V

WARNING: Some whumpage in this chapter.

If he wasn't an artist he might not have been affected so strongly by the imagery. As the barge approached the former luxury liner, now named the Regnum Atrus and got closer to what Neal was told was the dockside loading hatch, the yellow and red lights shining from inside the transfer hold gave the giant opening the look of a maw, waiting to swallow everything, the light reflected by the water from the sun which was blocked out, the fresh sea air which was overcome with the smell of rot and even the gentle swells of the water which lost their sparkle and turned to a dull oily green as the vessels closed together.

Green maneuvered the barge alongside the ship and then offered to help Neal carry his luggage to the hull. "He's starting already with you my friend."

Ordinarily Neal, who was capable of leaping from rooftop to rooftop even across alleyways and freescaling brick buildings with ease even with a load of loot on his back, would have had no trouble traversing the tops of the containers and jumping the short distance to the ship, even carrying his four suitcases, but he needed to be underestimated, and so the persona he was affecting was diffident, reserved, a little stiff and just this side of being a weakling in attitude if not physique and accepted Green's offer to help gratefully.

"What do you mean?"

"His goons aren't here yet," he whispered, "He's making you wait on his pleasure," he said as several rough looking men in work clothes appeared, carrying straps and hoisting equipment to transfer the cargo and jumped over to the barge. Green smiled and waved at them as they nodded to him in recognition and sneered in distain at Neal dressed in the more formal attire of his anticipated position.

"You mean them?" Neal asked, taken aback at the open hostility.

"Them, nay, they're pussy cats, they just look mean," Green said. "They're crew, never allowed above the sixth deck and you'll be spending almost all your time on the 12th. Armeni hires a type just to scare the rest of the staff from snooping around where the cargo is stored.

Neal nodded in acknowledgement, not wanting to make any comment that could be heard and repeated, against his new employer. As he waited at the edge of the hatch in the half light of the interior darkness contrasting to the brightness of the exterior light he worked himself deeper into his character, a humble servant, intent on pleasing his employer, anticipating his needs and especially subduing his own vibrant personality.

Waiting for his escort, Neal bid adieu to his real self for the con, bidding adieu with this transformation, to something he had rarely thought about before. For the first time in his life, Neal felt he was giving up what was left of his soul. It was something that surprisingly frightened Neal more than Peter's tales of Armeni, something he would never have thought about before this morning.

It was at breakfast on the roof terrace of June's mansion when he checked his cell phone at it's buzz to see the text message "T Security Clearance. Kill him, no repercussions. Mentor."

Neal dropped the phone as if it was on fire. He leapt up, overturning his chair and backed away, trembling, until he came against the wall of the terrace. Mentor wanted him to kill. Mentor gave him permission, Mentor gave him, a convicted felon, the right to kill when just days ago Ruiz was having conniptions over him merely holding a gun. Even Fowler never said Neal had to kill anyone, just that they were sending him after the person who ordered Kate's death.

But he wanted to kill those who were responsible for Kate's death, didn't he. He wanted to hold a gun on them. He wanted to see them fearful of him, for them to beg him for their lives. He wanted to see them tremble, see their terror at what awaited them on the other side. He wanted to pull the trigger and see their eyes go wide in amazement that he had killed them, that he had defeated them, see them bleed, see them die, and then... then he would be willing to go to prison, to prison for the rest of his life... then he would run, run away, run where he could never be found, never to feel safe enough to have a life, then he would...he had no "then." He didn't know.

But now he could kill, kill them, without remorse, without worry, without losing anything and there would be no repercussions and he could keep his life, and he could continue to live at June's and he could continue to work in the White Collar unit, outsmarting other criminals... and he could never look Peter in the eyes again, joke about his suits, argue about his way vs Peter's way. He could never sit with Elizabeth and vent about Peter's black and white attitude, laugh with her as she fed him samples testing her caterer selections, argue his preference for post impressionist over her fauvist infatuation. He could never commiserate with Mozzie, conspiracy addict, paranoid, wonderful Mozzie. He could never do that again because he had killed, executed, not to save his life, not in defense, but, despite orders, out of his own hatred because the orders really hadn't mattered. Which meant he could kill, and kill again because what law could override his emotions?. How could they ever trust him? How could he ever trust himself. Ironic, he thought. _I had no problem with the idea of breaking the law and committing murder to punish Kate's killers but now I'm given permission and the thought makes me sick with terror._

Did Peter know? Is that why he insisted Neal take that pen knife? If he knew then why didn't he just give him a gun? _I have a license to kill but can't get a gun permit, wonderful. _Was it that Peter did trust him or didn't trust him, was condoning the murders or saving Neal from himself? But Neal had already convinced himself that he could not trust himself, he was not worthy of anyone's trust, yet all these people had trusted him to the extent of making him a part of their lives because he was safe, despite his criminal conviction. They were safe knowing he would never do anything to hurt them. And that would be killed as well because if he killed out of hatred, they would be fearful of ever engendering that emotion in him and eventually the relationships would be killed by fear, of him, of what he might do. Just like now, once a liar, never to trusted even with telling the truth, once a killer, never to be trusted even when he'd die rather than hurt those he cared for. His thoughts whirled around him and in his imagination they took form, dark forms and light forms, red forms each thought fighting the other, watching him. Vengeance, he wanted it, craved it, but he didn't know if he could live with it.

_They're watching me!_ The thought came unbidden as he remembered the round the clock surveillance he was under. Neal took a moment to compose himself before plastering the biggest grin in his repertoire on his face, straightened, turned around and waved like an idiot at Fowler's or was it Mentor's agents he knew were stalking him from two blocks away.

"Morning Neal," he heard Peter call his name from the side door entrance and he had no time to do more than blank the message as Peter came over to grab some coffee, followed by Mozzie five seconds later, both using the rest of the hour before Neal had to leave double timing him, giving him last minute instructions.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

"Haldon," said a voice out of the darkness. Neal turned, his eyes adjusting slowly to the dim light to see a short but well muscled man dressed in 'the business casual,' style he'd associate with 'upper deck staff,' as opposed to lower deck crew. "I'm Link."

"Hello," Neal held out his hand, "Alfred Haldon," the first name chosen for Neal's fondness of Bruce Wayne's butler.

Link ignored Neal's hand, "You carry your own luggage. Bring all of it because what you leave the crew will confiscate or toss. Follow me."

Neal struggled along more than he really needed to, behind the man, through the enormous hold of the ship, passing numerous temperature and moisture controlled units as well as racks of equipment, linens, dining ware, cleaning supplies, cloth, piping, lumber, spare parts, everything needed to keep a boat maintained and in good repair and a few hundred people comfortable, fed and entertained on a cruise ship for at least a month.

"If He decides to keep you, you'll get keys to whatever holds you'll need access to down here as well as on His deck and a tour of where everything is," said Link. "You'll keep accounts of what you remove and why as well as what you order, which you'll turn in to me on a weekly basis. Don't run low on anything or over order our storage capacity or you will be severely reprimanded. You'll also be shown the areas that are off limits to the domestic staff. Security will know if you enter. Reprimands become more severe the more violations you pile up. You get ten, you're gone, the manner of which depends on the nature of the breech. You understand?"

Neal was afraid he did, but the proper gentleman's gentleman that Alfred Haldon was answered, "No, I'm afraid I don't understand," as they stopped at the last hatch.

Link turned to him, "probably better that you don't ever find out," he said opening the door and nodding for Neal to enter.

This cabin, in sharp contrast to the passageways and holds they'd so far traversed was lit brightly, Neal noted, by a Maria Theresa crystal chandelier. The walls were richly paneled in a dark, almost black wood and carpeted in a deep burgundy weave. But the room was bare of any furniture except for a plain shaker style table at the side and, on a one step pedestal, a huge high backed wood carved chair, cushioned in rich crimson satin and embossed in gold. Behind and above it hung an obscure, burgundy, black and gold coat of arms of which Neal was unfamiliar. Two other strongly built men, also dressed casually were leaning against the table, talking about a basketball game as they entered.

"These men will search your luggage. If there is anything you want to tell us about now that you brought against orders, it will go better for you than if we find it on our own."

"No, no, Mr. Link, I only brought what your instructions indicated is allowed," except for what was disguised in the luggage.

"It's just Link," he nodded to the men to proceed.

The men, while thorough removed and unfolded or opened each item in the suitcases, examined the suitcases themselves and then refolded and repacked everything as neatly as it had been. One of the men held up the transistor radio and Link held out his hand for it. "What's this?"

"I like to listen to music when I work. It's on the approved list."

"Can it transmit?"

"Transmit?" Neal assumed a confused expression, "Transmit, you mean like send messages?"

Link nodded.

"No, no, it can't."

"You know when we're further out at sea; you won't be able to pick up any channels."

Neal showed ignorance, "It won't? No, I didn't know. I'll have to have a word with the proprietor where I purchased it. He said it would work anywhere."

"Idiot!"

He turned back to the men, "Let him keep it," and handed it back to the men who replaced it in Neal's luggage.

"You have a comb, a mirror with you in your shaving kit?"

Neal blinked, startled by the question, "Yes, of course."

"Fine, get them. You're all windblown from the trip over. Take a couple of minutes to fix yourself up, I need to take an identity photo of what you look like now, when you first enter service for our records and for your security pass. You're to wear it at all times."

Neal, usually very conscious of the neatness of his appearance had been so nervous waiting for Link that he had done no more than run his hands through his hair after coming inside from the breeze. Displaying an embarrassment, not altogether a deception, he brought his appearance up to his standards, taking a bit longer than the few minutes of patience Link and his goons had, Neal smiled for the camera, to what appeared to be his audience's amusement.

Then Link went to an intercom on the wall and called. "We're ready for you sir."

A few minutes later, an enormously fat man, waddled in. He was Neal's height, and had beady dull hazel eyes, thinning light brown hair and a face covered in a trimmed beard. Despite the fact that he was perfectly coifed, wore a powerful citrus scent, and was impeccably dressed, even though he was wearing white shoes with a dark suit, (where did he get those awful shoes?) Count Rudolph Armeni gave the impression of being unwashed.

As Armeni walked around Neal, looking him up and down, Neal got a notion of foul odor about him. He didn't actually smell yet the man just seemed to reek.

"Excuse the theatrics," Armeni spoke with an accent Neal quickly recognized as affected. The faux count chuckled as he lowered himself carefully into what Neal came to think of as a throne. "They don't generally make comfortable chairs large enough or strong enough to support my weight so I have to make do," with what Neal now realized was an excellent reproduction of one of Henry the VIII's state thrones that must have cost a few thousand easily.

Armeni reached out and Link handed him a file which he opened and appeared to study for a moment. "This says your name is Alfred Haldon. I'll call you Haldon. I prefer not to be overly familiar beyond what is necessary, especially with a servant who will be helping me bathe and dress," Armeni looked up at Neal, catching his momentary wide eyed gaze. "Does that bother you Haldon?"

Neal struggled to keep a non-expression on his face, "No, sir, it is my duty to serve," he said in a slightly less than steady voice. He seemed to have missed this little tidbit when he was looking over the folder Fowler had given him about the operation. He suspected it wasn't even there.

However his reaction seemed to not only satisfy but please Armeni who smiled, "Good, good. Understand that I demand a complete knowledge of who my servants are and what they are. Security has cleared you but as the days go by, I will test your character and qualifications in various ways, ask you personal questions. You will answer them truthfully and without hesitation or obfuscation. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," said Neal, a bit shaky, partly because it was obvious Armeni wanted to cow the people who worked for him, but also partly because he was feeling a touch of revulsion and nervousness. Charm was not going to work with Armeni, Peter was unfortunately right. To Neal's chagrin, he usually was.

Armeni looked through the file, not looking up at Neal.

"You come highly recommended. However, it doesn't say here why you aren't still working at your former post?"

"The economy sir, they no longer had the funds to keep an extensive household," Neal knew his background, deeply planted would check out.

Armeni snorted, waving his hand dismissively, "Everything is blamed on the economy these days," Armeni said conversationally, "Why have I not received payment? The economy. Why isn't the merchandise moving? The economy. Why are my favorite handkerchiefs no longer being produced? The economy." He leaned forward in the chair, "It's an excuse Haldon, not a reason." More steel entered his tone, "I asked you why you aren't at your former post. Why were there no longer funds to keep a household?"

Neal had applied for jobs before, as part of a con, but this was worlds different. Falling back on the one movie Mozzie thought was the most helpful he said, "It is not my place to be curious about such matters."

Armeni smiled, laughed and slapped his knee, "Ha, now that's an answer! I like you Haldon. Too bad you stole the line from a movie but at least you're getting into the spirit of the thing," he said happily.

He leaned forward and for the first time, looked Neal straight in the eye, "You will be concerned solely with the matters I tell you to be concerned with and you will not be curious about anything else. You remember that and we'll get along fine."

He flipped a few more pages of the file, "What is your idea of a special breakfast?"

Neal immediately responded, "Oat-nut bread pudding infused with an egg-nutmeg custard covered in hot melted brown sugar and butter baked at 350 for half an hour. This can be accompanied by a carafe of fresh peach nectar and espresso," Neal rattled off the items from the menu of Equus, a five star restaurant in Tarrytown, New York he'd frequented occasionally on big cons before incarceration.

"Hmmm, sounds delicious, order it up for tomorrow morning for the staff meeting," Armeni said to Link. "You'll order my breakfasts hereafter," he said to Neal, "though nothing quite as elaborate for everyday. Consult with the ship's doctor as to my nutritional requirements."

Armeni worked his way up out of the chair, refusing a hand offered him by Link. He went over to Neal, and walked around him again. It was strange. Neal did not feel as if the man were undressing him with his eyes, it felt more like he was standing there already stark naked.

"Show me your hands," Armeni reached for Neal's outstretched hands, grabbed them in a tight nearly painful grip and looked them over. "Hmm, no calluses, that household must have been larger than mine. You'll be wearing several hats here, aside from being my gentleman's gentleman, you'll be supervising my family quarter's domestic and kitchen staff and as called upon consult with link and the domestic staff for the guest cabins."

Armeni walked back to his throne and struck a pose, "Others may think its just food, wine, and the right suit," he waved his hand and then leaned towards Neal, "but I know that things like this can make or break a deal. You will dress me to aide me in putting my guests at just the right balance of mind between ease and awe. Do you think you can do that, Haldon?"

"Yes sir," after all Neal had perfected how to dress to produce specific reactions from people. This should not be that different.

"Who designed my suit?"

"Ermenegildo Zegna," Neal said without hesitation. "But it must be an early release from the fall collection."

"Excellent, excellent," Armeni mounted his throne and stared at Neal in a manner that made him feel even more uncomfortable. "So tell me Haldon, what is the attitude a servant should have towards his master."

"Sir, as a domestic servant, I shall subdue my personality to your service and I will endeavor to carry out your wishes and keep your household in the manner you desire. That is my attitude and my goal, my function."

"Ah, so there is a bit of spirit in you," he smiled showing his teeth.

"Sir?"

"You perhaps thought I wouldn't notice that you did not acknowledge that I am your master, on this ship and refer to me as such. We will possibly soon discuss this display. You'd do well to remember that as master of this floating village, I hold the power of life or death over my entire crew."

Armeni must have gotten away with murder so many times; he actually believed what he was saying. Neal did not know how to answer and so he didn't. He was suddenly struck with the thought that someplace on this ship would be evidence of the people Armeni had killed, photos who of those who served on the ship only to disappear at sea.

"I think we'll have a lot of fun, you and I, delving into the depths of your servitude, the acceptance of your position in the scheme of things. You do accept your servitude, that your function is to do everything I ask and never be noticed, or acknowledged, don't you Haldon?" Neal did not like the sound of this.

"Yes, sir."

"There's one test I like to perform on potential servants, Haldon. Passing this test tells me that you have the right attitude towards your job. Fail this test and you will be returned on the next barge only slightly worse for wear. However it is your choice to take the test."

In any other circumstances Neal would have asked what the test would be, but he had a feeling that to do so would be automatic failure.

"I'll take the test."

"Excellent choice. Link?"

"Yes sir,"

"Hand Haldon your straight edge razor."

The razor, still folded up into its red plastic case was held out to Neal who looked up questioningly to Armeni. Link impatiently tossed it to Neal who fumbling, barely caught it in both hands, staring at it as if it were about to bite him. He wasn't far off.

"Scrape that scruff of an almost beard off your face, now." Armeni said, smiling in a congenial voice.

Neal was shocked. Never in any of his cons, assignments, undercover operations had he ever had to purposely hurt himself, and at the very least, this was going to be very uncomfortable. Humility, humility, Neal repeated to himself.

"May I have some shaving cream, or just some water?"

"Remember your place, Haldon, remember that I am the master and you my servant and you will do what I tell you to do, when and how I tell you to do it or face the consequences. Use the razor, now."

_Acceptance_' Neal thought as he opened the razor and and immediately nicked his fingers. The blade was amazingly sharp.

"A close shave Haldon, I don't want to see a shadow of a whisker."

Neal gritted his teeth as, without a mirror for guidance, he gently dry shaved.

"Closer Haldon, closer, or Link will do it for you. No five o'clock shadows."

Neal felt his beard pull, the blade catching at and scraping his skin, as he could not keep from nicking himself. He supposed he was happy the blade was sharp; while making mince meat of his face, it at least cut his light beard clean off.

"Ah, you missed a spot high on your cheek there, near your ear," Armeni pointed, grinning, always grinning, as Neal was about to switch sides. "You see Haldon, I sense pride in you. A proud servant is dangerous to me as well as himself and all around him. A proud servant gets ideas, tries to think for himself and ponders the possibilities of disobedience and of disrespect," Armeni waxed poetic. "Proud servants wonder what it would be like to be the master and perhaps make alliances with other proud servants to overthrow the master. You will not entertain such ideas here because, as you said, you don't concern yourself with such matters, do you Haldon?"

"No sir," Neal said tightly, enraged, his hand shaking as he continued to shave, cutting himself, scraping his skin raw.

"I can see that, Haldon and I want to make sure that you retain the proper attitude, to," he paused and then emphasized, "train you to my service. The matters that concern you are the care of my suits, my underwear, the way my hair is combed, the temperature of the tea served me and my family, the quality of the meat on my plate, the disinfectant used to clean the toilets, those are the matters that are of utmost concern to you, aren't they Haldon?"

"Yes sir." Neal, who got sick at the sight and smell of blood could feel thin rivulets of his own slowly running down his cheeks and chin to his neck, the burn of abrasions and the sting of the tiny nicks all over his face. It was humiliating in a way he'd never felt humiliated before, not in prison, not on the witness stand, not at the firing range or in the office. Here, he had agreed to it and done this to himself and the feelings this engendered made him angry, not only at Armeni but at himself for submitting, for agreeing to be in a position where he had to submit.

When he finished, Link held out his hand for the razor as Neal thought back to the text message he'd received that morning, and pondered the open bloodied blade, perhaps a moment too long before it was snatched from his shaking hands in such a way as to cause another shallow slice across the pads of his fingers.

Staring down at the blood oozing from the slice he felt his gorge rise, "Sir, I need," it was all Neal could do to control himself, holding his hands over his mouth, with the proximity of the blood to his nose only making it worse.

Neal looked to the door, hoping to make an escape to the passageway before he vomited in front of this monster but the door was blocked by the other two men.

There was no way out and there was nothing to do. Mortified Neal fell to his knees and heaved out everything he'd had for breakfast.

"Ah, on your knees before me, and marked as mine by your own hand, like a proper servant," Armeni laughed. "The proud gentleman's gentleman is really a wimp, perfect. At least now I'm 100 percent sure you're not an undercover cop. Congratulations, Haldon. Once you clean up your mess, you've got the job."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: A lot of people told me I'm spelling Neal's last name wrong. I'm sorry. I'm a lousy speller. I'm fixing it as I find it. However, since my chapters are not betaed, please feel free to notify me of my errors. Thank you.

Chapter VI

Neal, his shirt and suit stained and his hands coated in dried blood, carried his luggage, barely making it up to the 12th deck and into his assigned cabin, a small well appointed suite of rooms next to Armeni's, stateroom, before he rushed to the head, his stomach subjecting him to a bout of dry heaves as he couldn't yet get rid of the smell.

Unable to heave up anything else from his aching stomach he spent some time catching his breath and splashed cold water onto his face to sooth the pain and discomfort from the dry shave watching as the red tinged water dripped down into the basin. Grabbing some chap stick out of his shaving kit he used it to stop the nicks from bleeding before he cleaned himself off and bandaging some deeper cuts as well as those on his hands as best he could. Nearly done, he looked into the mirror. All and all, the numerous scraps and nicks would heal quickly, some moisturizing lotion would get rid of the irritation and pain, but it was his expression that startled him. It was not an affectation, not something he put on but something that came from within him. He barely recognized himself.

Neal realized he wasn't just nervous, he was afraid, afraid of how far he'd allowed himself to fall in such a short time, afraid of reacting that way of letting this whole thing get to him so easily.

"It's just a con," he said to himself but that was exactly the problem. As in all cons, he had to feel the way his persona would feel in order for the mark to believe. While Neal Caffrey would have charmed his way out of anything he didn't want to do, if needed, would have endured the dry shave with a sarcastic remark, would not have vomited all over the floor in front of his mark and then added to the humiliation by having to clean it up.

Alfred Haldon had to feel intimidated, humiliated, had to accept and had to sell that to the mark because he knew without a doubt, if he didn't, instead of getting Armeni, Armeni would have him disappear. As a result, Neal did feel intimidated, humiliated, mortified and he was ashamed that he couldn't shake those feelings in the little privacy he had to be himself. "What have I gotten myself in to?"

He'd barely had a chance to change his shirt when Link walked into his cabin, without knocking. "Armeni has 50 guests with a combined entourage of 164 coming in two days for one of his art salons as he calls them. You have to arrange for suites to be made ready and extra fresh food for whatever menus you choose. Some of the guests have allergies to peanuts, a few others to shell fish; there are no other dietary requirements. Chef can whip up anything but you'll have to order what you don't have tomorrow morning for it to be delivered on time. Also, make yourself familiar with His wardrobe tomorrow. You'll have to get his clothes ready. He wants to be woken by 6 a.m. with his breakfast tray which you pick up from the galley. He walks around the deck, then takes a swim and you'll help him with his shower afterwards and help him dress. Then he'll need something casual for the rest of the day and something formal for dinner. He has no appointments today but you'd better have an appropriate suit ready in case because that can change without notice."

Link told Neal that he was Armeni's chief of staff as he briefed Neal while he gave him a tour around the passageway entrances for the forward 12th deck. The 'master' and his family rarely left except to go ashore. They lived on the top deck which held the families' quarters, for Armeni, his wife, his mistress, his boyfriend, and Armeni's sons. They also held family rooms, sitting rooms, music rooms, entertainment rooms including a pool and exercise areas, and Armeni's study, salon, office, ballroom and dining room, all of which were huge given the outside dimensions.

Link was not allowed to enter these quarters unless summoned or in an emergency, unlike Neal and some hand picked domestic employees, who, as Peter indicated, would have free reign in order to perform their duties. As Link droned on, Neal made note of the coded lock on Armeni's door. The family and guests had key and tumbler locks but employees had none. He'd asked Link about theft and all he was told was there was zero tolerance. Neal wasn't sure he wanted to know exactly what that meant.

Neal spotted security cameras all over the ship, including his cabin, even one in his bathroom though he knew that to be illegal, as if Armeni cared. However, just from looking around the passageways he didn't notice anything that would indicate video security in Armeni's or the family's rooms, probably so that his business associates' anonymity would be protected. He also noted the areas where there was heightened electronic security and alarms, indicating proximity to valuables, possibly a vault. He'd have to be ready to take advantage of any opportunity he could to send reports and receive orders. At least he was fairly sure he'd have privacy to do his exploring of the family quarters on his own.

Then came the cabins for the family's personal servants, secretaries, hair dressers, trainers, tutors and lady's maids, the family's galley and personnel and the ship doctor.

Suites for the variety of ever changing guests Armeni always seemed to have were on the 11th deck along with cabins for his guests' retainers and entourage. On deck 10 cabins were assigned to employees by hierarchy down the line with crew below decks but with access to one promenade deck with a pool for them as well as a complete gym.

Aside from crew and staff there were also several hundred people who performed ship's services, laundry, housekeeping, maintenance, as well as those who lived on the ship who were able to produce almost everything needed by the small floating town so as to be completely self sustaining.

The one exception was that Armeni wanted fresh food, whenever possible and while hydroponics handled a huge variety of produce which the chef chose from each day, Armeni did not want to be stuck with the barn yard smells that were associated with animal husbandry. The man did like his filet mignon, bloody, as well as his steak tartar. The hold had a number of refrigerator and humidity controlled containers just for this purpose.

It wasn't until hours later, after a general tour of the ship, review of his duties, discussion of the menus with the chef, introduction to the department heads, review of the ship's stores, and preparation of Armeni's clothing for the next day, that Neal, dead on his feet nearly stumbled into his cabin. During the tour, Neal didn't see any artwork worth a thief's time or anything that he thought might have been stolen, but he had not gotten into Armeni's suite and personal areas yet where he surmised if there was stolen art on display, it would be there.

Under cover of darkness, Neal prepared the transmitter and hid it in the clothing he would be wearing the next day so that when he found a safe place to transmit, he'd be ready. He also wrote out a report to hand to Green who would be at the loading hatch by 5 a.m.

Morning came way too quickly for Neal who, over stressed, had barely slept the few hours he had to himself since boarding the ship. Attaching the security identity badge to his jacket, Neal took a final glance at the mirror and was taken aback by the difference from his security badge to his present appearance in just 24 hours. It wasn't just the residual redness here and there on his face, it wasn't the façade he had constructed for himself, it was his expression. Reading himself, he knew he was afraid, he knew he wanted out, and he knew he was in danger because if he saw this, Armeni saw it as well.

The question was what was it telling Armeni, that he was what Armeni wanted him to be, was turning into what Armeni wanted or that more 'testing,' was needed. He didn't know. He didn't know his mark like he thought he had and this was a cause for fear.

Easily finding his way back to the port side loading hatch, Neal faced a wide eyed Green sitting on an empty container, watching the crew unload the day's food and other supplies, "What the hell happened to you?" he asked in shock.

"I had my job orientation," Neal said quietly, under cover of using his titanium pen to check the boxes against a list he had on a pad, for crates to go up to the top deck's storerooms and galley.

"Come on, jump on, I'll get you out of here before they know you're gone."

"I haven't found anything yet. I've barely had a chance to look."

"Neal, please. You look awful."

"Gee, thanks," smiled Neal.

Green shook his head, "Peter will kill me if I don't get you out now."

"I'm okay, really. It looks a lot worse than it is. Things just took me a little bit by surprise but I can handle this."

However he could not stop Green from quickly snapping a picture of him on his cell phone and sending it to Peter. He had a feeling he was going to hear a word or ten thousand from Peter when he had an opportunity to listen to whatever his 'transistor radio,' received later that day.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Assistant Director Reece Hughes walking into Peter's glass walled office on any day usually meant bad news, but this time Hughes was hoping to get good news from his favorite special agent about that agent's pet redemption project, Neal Caffrey.

"Burke, you said you wanted to discuss Caffrey's report?"

Peter motioned him to pull Neal's chair, which used to be the guest chair up and turned his computer screen to show him the picture Green had taken of Neal earlier that morning.

"What the hell happened to him?" Hughes' general equanimity was gone at the sight of Neal's face.

Peter opened a file with a copy of the report Neal had handed to Green plus Green's observations and handed a copy to Hughes. "All Neal said about it was it was his job orientation. He said he hadn't recognized anything yet that is listed anywhere as stolen as far as he knows but there were some works that he'd never seen and some painters he'd never heard of before. He was watched too closely to take pictures but he included a list of artists. We're running through them now but so far nothing.

"He'd been taken on a tour of the ship and instructed in his responsibilities. It took all day but he was able to spot the security cameras all over the place. He's been under close scrutiny and hadn't yet gained access to Armeni's family's quarters. He suspected if there was anything stolen that was in plain sight, that's where he'd see it. He said he'd be able to get into Armeni's rooms tomorrow as part of his duties and could take more time looking for what would be in plain sight without raising suspicions. However, there's supposed to be a party or some gathering tomorrow night and he thinks he'll see more then."

Hughes kept looking at the picture of Neal, his expression more than his injuries.

"You sure they aren't suspicious of him already?"

"Ten butlers in as many months? No, I think Armeni has a rather harsh employer/employee relationship policy."

"But you want to pull him out anyway, don't you," he said to Peter.

"I don't like this whole thing. Armeni is a psychopath intent on demeaning everyone around him. Given Neal's cover, he's pretty much vulnerable. He has to act subservient, humble, meek, all of which goes against his grain to begin with."

"He is experienced in keeping a cover, Peter," countered Hughes. "He was a con man and had fooled hundreds of people."

"Yes, yes he has. But he's never had to take a part like this. All of his established aliases were rich, cultured, commanding figures. Yeah, he was a chef, a house painter, other workmen from time to time, even a street vendor. But those were for a few hours and he could leave at a moment's notice if things got too hot. None of those personas demanded subservience on his part. If he wasn't in command, so to speak, he could have temperament. This is totally different."

"It was your idea to run the op, Peter."

"Yeah, but it was to get it out of Fowler's clutches. Fowler wouldn't pull Neal unless he had results and possibly, probably not even then. We can pull him and I want to, now."

Peter pointed to Neal's face in the picture, "I don't know what was done to him or how, but it had to be painful and humiliating and the operation has barely started. It's going to get worse and fast. You saw those photos of our last agent."

The only sign of emotion Hughes' showed was to close his eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. Then he looked at Peter's screen again, considered the picture and the reports for a moment. "Has he transmitted anything to you yet?"

Peter shook his head no. "I don't expect him to until he finds a place where he won't be seen and if they're watching him so closely and there are security cameras all over, like he reported, that's going to be difficult. But this once a day thing is worrying me. If he wants to leave when Green is there, he's got enough of a former Navy trained crew and fire power on the barge that if there's trouble, they can protect Neal pretty well. But if something happens at another time, even if it will only take five minutes to get there, Neal has no way to escape even if he breaks cover to call for help.

Hughes shook his head. "I'm not going to pull him…"

Peter was out of his seat, "Reese! I can't believe this."

Hughes held his hands palms down for calm, "yet. Okay. He's barely had 24 hours. Let's give him a chance to find something or confirm that if something is there, it's not in plane sight. Besides, who knows what he will find out serving at that party he mentioned. He's already gone through too much just to come back empty handed because we didn't give him a chance."

Peter was angry. He was sure that if it were any other agent, Reese would have pulled him at the first sign that the agent was in any type of distress. He was about to voice these thoughts when Hughes stopped him.

"Peter, I know I've always been skeptical of your experiment and distrustful of Caffrey but that doesn't mean I want to see him hurt. I also can't deny that he's become a valuable member of your team and has pulled an extraordinary number of rabbits out of that trilby he's so fond of. He's closer to finding out more about Armeni's business dealings for us than we've ever been able to before. By later today we should hear something from him and if we don't, Green should see him and report his observations tomorrow morning.

"And then I pull him out!"

"I'm giving him the rest of today and tomorrow to find what we need and leave with Green. I'll reevaluate the situation then. If I think he's in trouble and is too stubborn to admit it, then you go in."


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry I'm a little late posting this but there was this show I had to watch, and re-watch, and re-watch. Maybe you've heard of it, "Black Anklet"?

Chapter VII

WARNING: There is whumpage in this chapter.

It was later that morning that Neal's next lesson in proper servitude was administered.

Neal opened the carved walnut double doors separating the entry corridor of Armeni's family suite of rooms from the dinning room, checking for any security mechanisms out of habit, looked up and was struck with awe. In front of him was a 15 foot high, 50 foot wide glass wall draped with sheer white curtains, billowing in the breeze coming from French doors which opened onto a terrace overlooking the ocean. He'd been in the interior of the ship for just over 24 hours and did not realize how much he missed the sun and the open sky which seemed to draw him forward. It was a clear, blue sky day as a distant memory of fleetingly rare true happiness touched his mind.

Unlike the terrace which he enjoyed outside his loft, there were no buildings, no people, no sounds of cars honking accompanied by their exhaust. Unlike the park where he would join June every once in a while just to enjoy his freedom, there were no ants, dogs, children, robins, cardinals, bluejays, and of course the sparrows and ever present pigeons _birds, not people._ He chuckled to himself though the people type were also quite prevalent.

He breathed in the salt air, much fresher than the last he had sniffed upon his arrival on the ship. It was beautiful out here, crisp and clean and heaven and, for the first time since he had boarded the ship he felt alive, he felt himself smile, his eyes squinting at the sun, his face lifting to the rays and took a deep breath, stretching himself out to his full height, opening his arms as to embrace all the possibilities. He felt like an oppressive shadow had been lifted from his mind. He felt like himself.

Some sea gulls squawked overhead and he followed their path with his eyes as they landed on the deck searching for some scraps, no doubt, that had somehow escaped the big place where people ate food, he smiled at his game of bird thoughts.

_Darn _Neal regretfully tore himself away to focus on what he'd come into the room for, lunch for Armeni _feeding time at the trough_ and family, he turned and saw pay-dirt. There, in front of him, the huge 30 foot high wall curved up and around to the balcony doming over the entire room like an inside out Faberge egg because the darkly paneled walls and ceiling were covered in bright, exquisite color. There were tapestries from ancient to modern, paintings done in oils, in water colors, framed murals fastened against the curved ceiling, mosaics in cloth, stone, and glass. They hung around him and over him and while Neal had oft been in some amazing homes, had visited the most renown museums in the world, he had never seen so much art in one place.

_Art, right, check it out Caffrey while you have the chance._ Neal knew that Armeni or a member of his family, staff or any of the domestic workers could come in here at any moment and so he had to photograph as many of the works as possible without seeming obvious about it. He did not want to make the assumption that Armeni would think his appreciation of the beauty around him was innocent, especially when it wasn't. Well, he certainly wasn't going to steal anything, unless he was tempted. He grinned, damn if he really did feel like himself again.

Unlike Daniel Picah's incoherent collection of the rare and expensive and historic and chaotic objects of all ages and cultures, all the work in this room were true to the obvious theme of people eating, feasting, drinking and reveling. _Actually, it's really unappetizing._

He walked the room slowly, and to all appearances, was checking for dust, a stain that had not been cleaned, a brass accouterment that had not been polished, any item that appeared out of place and all the time, snapping pictures of as much of the art as he could. Ordinarily, Neal would have had no compunctions to climb atop the best of furnature to inspect the brushstrokes, the use of color, the signature of any work.

This was not an ordinary time and luckily it wasn't incumbent upon him to check to see if these were originals, reproductions, which was possible, or forgeries, which he doubted.

Neal had memorized the entire listing of the Art Loss Registry and knew of work that had been stolen which was not listed as well as work which had been replaced with as yet undiscovered forgeries. While most of what he saw on the wall appeared from his limited ability to inspect were originals or signed as a reproductions, so far none were listed. It didn't mean that the pieces were not stolen, only not reported, or stolen from other thieves, or that the list had not been updated with the most recent thefts.

Walking around the thirty foot long French provincial pecan wood table, checking the placement of the floral arrangements and chairs, checking their distance from the table, he snapped pictures of a few pieces that he suspected might have a dubious history as well as a few by names he did not recognize or were not well known and came back to the door. He had to leave. If he spent too much time in here, he'd be questioned, something he wanted to avoid at all costs. Neal looked out at the sea and the air one last time. _I'm Neal Caffery _and he sighed as he took the steps back into the innards of Regnum Atrus.

Neal had just closed the door when he heard what sounded like a yelp. He also heard the unmistakable voice of Armeni in heated conversation with what sounded like a young woman, a very frightened young woman.

Looking up and down the red carpeted corridor, mindful of the security cameras, Neal bent as if to tie his shoelace and surreptitiously listened at the door.

The conversation became strident, though he could not make out the words, with the woman sounding terrified. Neal Caffery, romantic knight in shining amour, who vomited at the sight and smell of blood, reared his proud head under the persona of Alfred Haldon, meek, humble, wimp who did not concern himself with such matters.

Taking a breath, quickly devising a story he hoped would be plausible enough to preserve his cover, Neal entered the room just as Armeni's fist was raised against a young, slender, pretty blond haired woman, who could not have been more than 16. _So he's at least a statutory rapist as well. _Neal snapped a few pictures of the girl, her wrist, held with bruising force, in Armeni's clasp as he was twisting it back behind her with the other hand.

"Sir," Neal said loudly, immediately gaining the attention of a badly startled Armeni who appeared livid at the interruption, yet let go of the woman's hand, straightened his suit jacket and adopted a more genial expression. "Please forgive the interruption. I beg a moment of your time."

Immediately the girl ran from the room out the door they'd entered. "Women," Armeni said shaking his head in the same manner that Peter had said that to Neal when he'd first found him in Kate's abandoned apartment.

Neal smiled slightly in a companionable manner, which strangely seemed to irritate Armeni. "What do you want?"

"I'm sorry for the interruption sir. I wanted to know at what time you wished lunch served and since I'm not as yet familiar with your circle, I need to know the number of settings."

"Ah, 2 p.m. will be fine and," he turned his head, looking at the door where the girl had run, "six," then he grinned and turned back, his eyes glittering with a madness that sent a shiver through Neal, "no seven settings will do."

"Very good, sir," Neal said and turned to leave when Armeni's voice stopped him.

"Wait," Neal turned back.

"Yes sir?"

"Haldon, there's something..." Armeni looked him up and down, confused. "You look somewhat different. You look..."

"Sir," Neal kept himself as steady as he could realizing he had made what was an amateur and could be a fatal error. He'd slipped, even if momentarily, out of character and the change in his emotions, his feelings about himself, showed on his face.

"Clever, Haldon."

"Sir?"

"You're a clever man. There is steel in your eyes. You're not all that meek after all, are you, or is it just a pretty face that stirs you out of complacency?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand your point sir." He had to get away, now. "If you'll excuse me, I have duties to perform." Fight had left the building and flight took it's place and Neal quickly turned to leave.

"Yes, I'm sure you do. Come here."

Neal walked over to Armeni who grabbed Neal's chin as soon as he was in reach, rubbing his thumb harshly over a spot that still was raw, pressing in on it as Neal bit his tongue to keep from showing any expression or making a sound.

"You did a descent job shaving this morning, well done."

_This man was believed to be involved with the man who ordered Kate's death_, "Thank you sir."

"You'll be grateful for the lesson as now you will remember to be properly barbered at all times," Armeni, let go and before Neal realized he was free, the larger man socked him in the face so hard Neal was knocked to the ground, landing on his back. Neal still schooling his features and scrabbled backwards until he cold pull himself up against the leg of one of the dinning room chairs and gingerly rubbed his cheek, now tender and swelling.

_Except there was no proof that he did it that would stand up in court and Neal knew well what would happen with no proof._

"You pack quite a whallup, if I may say so sir."

The calm response, given, just the right touch of flattery, Neal thought for a moment, his distraction might help.

"That will be the last time you enter a room unannounced or interfere in my business," Armeni said amiably as if he were discussing the weather.

The words of protest, of denial, of misunderstanding that came to Neal's mind died with the look Armeni gave him.

"Will that be all sir?" was what was left as Armeni held his gaze_. I'll find the proof and Peter and I will nail the son of a bitch._

"Complacency is a much better country to spend one's time in for inferiors such as yourself."

_And if he's guilty of a capital crime, which he must be many times over, I'll watch them plunge the needle into his arm and cheer._

"I've had many people attempt to play me for a fool, Haldon. They're mostly dead. Its human nature to test your limits, to push, to probe for weakness in your betters, to exploit any chink in the amour you hope to find," Armeni grabbed Neal's right arm, swiftly pulling him up from the floor, then bent his arm back to the near breaking point while he continued to hold Neal's gaze.

"But you Haldon, you act as if you are no more than my servant, but there's more raw iron in you. I can see that."

"I don't know what you mean, sir."

"I shall break that, Haldon. I'll have your complete loyalty and discretion," Armeni pushed Neal's arm up higher. "What you see and hear is what I allow. Everything else you will forget." Armeni jerked Neal's arm up even further as Neal bit his tongue using all his self control not to react, still holding the other man's gaze

"You will not interfere. It is not your place to be curious about such matters. People of your station only do well by keeping their place and staying out of the affairs of their betters," Neal could barely breathe, the pain was so intense as his arm was bent so far back he thought it would break, "isn't that right Haldon?"

For one tiny moment, Neal thought of the text message he received, "Kill him." Neal reached for the titanium pen in his pocket, his fingers clenched it. _This is the man Fowler believes had something to do with Kate's death. _He could drive the pen knife right through Armeni's eye and into his brain, just like he'd seen in "The Godfather III.".

Armeni pushed Neal further and further, squeezing his wrist tight enough to cut off circulation and leave bruises.

"Haldon, you are not to keep me waiting for an answer."

_There would be no repercussions, none_.

"Isn't that right?"

_This is a man I could kill, take joy in killing.__I could walk away, no repercussions,_

"And of course you have proof that he's guilty," Neal heard Peter in his head.

Armeni pushed even harder, now twisting Neal's wrist in a manner it was not meant to move.

_ I have no proof. I don't know if he is the man Mentor wants dead. _

Armeni pushed so hard Neal was sure his shoulder was coming out of it's socket.

_I could never look Peter in the face again if I was wrong. If I was right. If I was right,_ Neal felt himself shuddering. _Is he worth what I'd feel if I was right?_

"Answer me Haldon, answer me," Armeni enunciated each word clearly.

_ I have no proof and the only way Armeni will get what he so richly deserves is if I get the proof. Focus on the job you were sent here to do, Caffery. Now I sound like Peter. _

Neal released the pen and dropped his gaze as if in submission, "Yes sir."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter VIII

WARNING: Major whumpage, graphic violent death of minor character, aborted suicide, graphic sexual references in this chapter.

For the rest of the day, Neal struggled to do his work while maintaining his façade despite a right arm that he could barely move, an eye that was swollen closed and the acid feel of building stress in his stomach.

It was bad enough that Armeni was using him as a punching bag, but he felt like he wasn't making enough headway for everything that he was enduring.

His attempts at social engineering failed completely as the galley and domestic staff stopped work at his approach, listened to his orders, asked no questions and would show him no notice beyond what was strictly necessary. No one wanted to get noticed by Armeni as having any association with with the new 'trainee'. To be noticed meant pain, as was evidenced as many of the staff sported some fading facial bruises. He was alone in that he seemed to be the walking abject lesson to all of what could happen if they breeched Armeni's trust. It was worse than isolation, he was a pariah.

Armeni seemed disinterested in seeing how far he could push Neal for the rest of the afternoon. He was sequestered in what he called his outer office, a fine ornately wood paneled room that opened to a small balcony behind the large iron wood desk. While there were filled floor to ceiling book cases, which Neal suspected had some rare editions, he saw no artwork.

Armeni kept Neal busy, waiting on him, Link and a few other members of his business staff, bringing them coffee and snacks and cleaning up the refuse, while they sat around a conference table giving progress reports and receiving new instructions.

Favoring his arm, and having little distance perspective because of his injured eye, Neal still moved a bit more slowly and carefully than he had to, yet did not dare to linger longer at any task than would gain attention. The up coming dinner was part of a larger event which seemed the hallmark of Armeni's success. From the bits of conversation he could catch Neal could determine that some bartering of art as well as other merchandise unknown was to take place; strategies were being developed for upcoming negotiations the next evening. Armeni seemed confident as long as everything went as planned.

Neal was thinking about what he might do to upset the plans as the strategy meeting was winding down and Armeni turned his attention back to Neal.

"I want only the best for these guests, Haldon. This is a matter to concern you," he chuckled, "What have you planned for dinner tomorrow night?"

"An appetizer of crispy phyllo brie with Verjus pouched pear in a cranberry port reduction, served with Beaujolais Nouveau chardonnay, petite romaine drizzled with lemon-parmesan dressing for salad accompanied by a Riesling; entrée is rack of lamb with grilled eggplant, Jerusalem artichoke puree, extra virgin olive oil poached grape tomato with spring garlic sauce, glazed carrots and pommes puree, paired with a 2004 Sine Qua Ode To E Syrah and galaktoboureko for desert with Greek coffee and Orange Muscat," Neal rattled off in one breath.

The stark astonishment registered by Armeni by Neal's immediate recitation of a meal fit for royalty may have been a meaningless victory but it kept Armeni off Neal's back long enough for Neal to enter into his 'master's' bedroom on the pretense of becoming familiar with his wardrobe and using Armeni's phone to send Peter his report and receive a message from his handler.

Neal sighed with relief after the communication even though it was nothing more than exchanged electronic micro-bursts; it was some contact with his friend, with normalcy.

Though the whole exercise took no more than a minute, Neal didn't dare listen to what Peter had to say until he was under cover of darkness in his room. He did not want to get caught here doing anything out of the ordinary and he was fearful for what his face might reveal to anyone watching the security monitors anywhere else.

The reprieve was short lived.

That night, when Neal seated Armeni's 'family,' group the girl who had been with Armeni that morning when Neal interrupted them had not entered the dining room.

Neal did not think anything could be read from his face yet after he seated the rest of the group, he asked Armeni if the young lady was delayed or should he remove the place setting.

"You can't seem to contain your curiosity about things that don't concern your duties, Haldon, can you?"

"Sir, it is my duty to set the correct number of places and to have food prepared accordingly."

"Ah, the appropriate answer, with just the right tone, yet I see it in your eyes, Haldon. I see it and I will break it."

"What sir?" Neal dared to ask.

"Concern for someone other than myself, defiance, " Armeni said as he gestured for Link to come forward and nodded towards Neal, "Bring him. I want to see just how concerned for others and defiant of me our proper Haldon is."

Neal gritted his teeth to keep from making a sound as Link pulled him by his bad arm out to the balcony and a few feet past the window wall to where two thugs stood over the girl who Neal had seen with Armeni that morning. That she had been beaten badly was obvious, that she was frightened more so and with good reason as she was gagged; her limbs restrained with shackles and a belt of 50 lb. weights was around her waist. A third thug held a digital camera and kept it trained on the girl. At Link's direction, he aimed it at Neal.

Armeni bent and petted the struggling girl's hair and looked at Neal. "She had no brains, which for a while was to her advantage. One of the best I've had for warming my," Armeni paused and a touch of lust entered his eyes, "bed. But then she made the stupid mistake of thinking, a very stupid mistake. Though," Armeni sighed, "she was pretty, wasn't she? But those who possess transient human beauty are a dime a dozen and I have a new one coming in later this evening. I'm assured that she will be much more compliant to my wishes. This," he gestured to the weights, "is the easiest way to get rid of a nuisance who knows too much and dares to threaten to use it against me."

Armeni straightened, "Now, shall we be merciful and kill her before we dump her overboard, or shall we be cruel and let the ocean do it for us? I hear a death like that is painful and can take hours, but it leaves less mess for you to clean up. It's your choice Haldon."

Utterly shocked Neal had not been so scared since he saw the red dot of a sniper rifle's laser scope dancing on a career receptionist's forehead as Neal was running out of time to convince her to violate her employer's security in time to prevent the sniper from blowing her brains out.

"Why kill someone who could be an asset?" Neal used his best, 'I've got the answer to all your problems," tone. "She knows the penalty now. Surely you can find another use for one such as her?" Neal tried to bargain despite the disadvantage of his position.

"Another use?" Armeni laughed, "and what other use would that be? Do you want her, Haldon? I wouldn't think such a proper butler would be be satisfied with sloppy seconds." Neal would have said yes if he thought it would save the girl's life but if he did Armeni would kill her anyway, just to hurt him for showing concern for another human being.

"Sir, she could help in the kitchen for the dinner tomorrow night, help serve, or maybe she could be a maid? She must have been cleared by your security. I, I could train her as you train me. Surly she has untapped skills, talents. It would be a waste to not continue to use her services."

"She had plenty of skills and I've tapped all of them Haldon. I've used all the services she's capable of providing and I kept her here in the lap of luxury, and in turn, she betrayed me. I will have no one serve me whom I can't trust," Armeni grinned, "But you, Haldon, you are an interesting contradiction; squeamish at the sight of blood yet defying me at every turn. You will learn to obey me Haldon, no matter what I ask of you. Link, we have need of your razor again and give it to Haldon."

Neal looked from one man to the other, desperately thinking, planning, and working the angles in a situation that kept changing with chaotic irregularity. He never saw this coming, never dreamed he would be in such a position, was lost to find some stratagem which would do anything to mitigate what he feared was to happen. _What would Peter do?_

"I'll do what you ask, master" Neal said hoping he could buy some time to think of something, to change their minds. "I'll do it. I'll prove my loyalty."

Armeni smiled his approval. "So you will do the honors? I'm impressed with your instant change of attitude Haldon."

Neal did his best to keep his hand from shaking as he held it out for the razor, the same one he used on himself the day before. Link dropped it into his hand as the other man recorded his movements.

Neal looked at it, opened it up while watching how the girl struggled. He ran his thumb over the edge, testing it's incredible sharpness. He pasted a leer on his face, a look of lust when all he wanted was to reassure the girl, tell her not to be afraid, but he couldn't, and it would be a useless gesture.

He bent down over the struggling girl, and ran the knife over her throat, terrifying her more and more, as she increased her fruitless efforts to move away. With everyone's attention on the knife play, as quickly as only he could, Neal unfastened the shackles, leaving them unlocked but together and tried to communicate to the girl to stay still until the right time. He saw her tears, saw her choking in her attempts to scream, as he continued to stroke her throat with the side of the blade and looked up at Armeni, as if asking his permission, his acceptance of Neal's total submission.

Armeni grinned and nodded, "Ah, my perfect servant."

Neal slowly raised his arm waiting for just the right moment, when the girl was at the height of hysteria, when the lust for blood in the men around him had their focus on the woman's throat, when he was sure he had them anticipating this act of butchery, he raised his arm over his head and looked up at Armeni, "I will kill this girl for you, to prove my obedience and loyalty."

All eyes were on the knife as Neal held it high and with all the force he had he swung his arm down, flicking his wrist, throwing the razor at Armaini's chest. Yelling a threat to kill them if anyone came near him, Neal leaped up, grabbed for the titanium knife in his pocket ready to do as much damage as he could to those around him while he pulled the girl up to her feet.

But the razor, never made for throwing, even by someone who knew how, missed, landing uselessly on the deck, and before Neal could push the terrified girl to run, Link grabbed him by his neck and dragged him down, twisting his arm back behind him, adding pressure to his wrist so that the titanium knife fell. Another man practically picked the girl off the ground and threw her at Neal's feet, shackles and weights again locked on tightly.

Armeni was livid. He picked up the razor and walked forward, the smile on his face hard, his eyes boring into Neal. "Link, fasten the razor to Haldon's hand, you know how."

Neal's eyes went wide, his terror increasing. His one shot had failed. There was no rescue, no Peter at the door, no Jones with a sniper rifle, no Mozzie with a con up his sleeve. They were going to make him do this. Armeni's men used clear colored masking tape to fasten the razor to Neal's hand and kept the pressure on his shoulders to keep him on his knees over the terrified girl."

Armeni was going to use Neal as an instrument of death, as a means a to kill the girl. "No, no," Neal thought of reaching for the pen knife but it was beyond his reach and he regretted not using it that morning to kill Armeni when he had the chance and be done with it as he had license to do, hating himself for wasting time with his moral debate which did nothing but add impotency to act to his list of sins.

He struggled with all his strength but there was no way to break free of the grip of the men that held him in place. The girl looked like she was going into seizures and Neal prayed that she was, anything, anything, must happen so that he would not commit murder.

"Ah, you're not so meek, mild and obedient now, are you, Haldon? I told you I demand obedience, I demand loyalty and I demand discretion. You defended a slut who knew my secrets, who would not obey, who struck me, who was going to blackmail me. I will use her murder to blackmail you. I'm sure it will insure you use the required qualities in my service."

Neal looked down at the girl, fear, guilt and remorse in his own eyes that he knew he could do nothing to prevent this. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said.

"Yes, Haldon, ask her forgiveness. If you had not interfered this morning I could have let her live, broken her, but allowed her to continue to serve. But you should beg my forgiveness too. You defended her when it is me she insulted. We may have to do this again when the situation arises. Now Link," Armeni ordered.

Link grabbed Neal's bad arm and braced his elbow straight out so that Neal could not bend his arm to mitigate the strikes, while another man held Neal in place by twisting his other arm behind his back, as the woman continued to twist and turn against her restraints.

"Do it," Armeni ordered and Neal screamed in pain and anguish as Link shoved Neal's arm with blinding force down to the woman's chest.

Blood covered Neal's arm, released from Link's hold. Bent over, he rocked back and forth, not daring to look at anyone.

Armeni smiled, as Link pulled Neal back to view the damage done to the girl, her chest now covered in blood, her eyes open, staring blankly as if in death. Until she blinked.

"Damn it, sir, he cut himself. He tried to kill himself," Link said pointing to the blade of the razor bent from the hasp, sticking out of Neal's wrist.

At the last moment, Neal had twisted his fingers, pressing the blade down, managing to slide the blade into his arm, slicing down against his own wrist with the blade desperately trying to fake the women's death by covering her in his own blood.

"Link, enough of this!"

"No, No," Neal pleaded, as his arm was extended again and the knife was more firmly attached, even as his own blood flowed around the tape, "No, no, no, please stop, please; let her live, kill me, kill me instead."

"You beg, you plead, and yet still you show defiance. You must learn your place. I need to trust my servants. I demand obedience. Give me obedience Haldon, give me your loyalty." Armeni gestured to Link.

"No," Neal screamed as the first strike across the woman's chest spurted blood up covering Neal's hands.

"No," Link jerked Neal's arm up and down again and again, each time cutting deeply into the woman's chest and abdomen.

"No," each time Neal begged her forgiveness and pleaded for it to stop and each time more blood showered over him.

Then one last time his arm was held and, to Neal's horror, slammed down onto the woman's throat, slitting it open, causing her blood to spurt up covering Neal with splatter from his head down to his knees.

He had been used as a gun. He had been used to murder an innocent young woman whom he didn't even know. He had been used to butcher her.

Shaking from shock, tears flowing down his face, Neal at first didn't register that Link had stepped back and that the thug with the camera had artfully captured the whole thing, continuing to tape shots of Neal with the bloody razor, covered in blood kneeling over the butchered woman.

"Perfect," said Armeni as he looked over the photographer's shoulder.

Released from Link's grip, Neal watched helplessly as they picked up the girl's body and threw it overboard. They had made evidence that he'd killed the girl. People would believe that, not him and whatever life he had to go back to was dead, what he'd been made to do, he knew they'd make him do it again and even again. Not even realizing what he was doing, Neal raised the blade one last time, taking aim at his other wrist.

"Stop him," ordered Armeni as Link immediately grabbed Neal's hand and forced Neal down to the floor, his face pressed in the pool of blood. Shaking with unused adrenaline, with his failure, with his hopelessness, Neal retched uncontrollably. Link cut the tape binding Neal's hand to the razor and put the blade in in a plastic evidence bag.

Armeni smiled at Neal's distress. "Put that and the digital card with the pictures in the vault," Armeni said to Link. "Then hose down the deck and him along with it," he pointed to Neal. "Make sure you get rid of the stink. Also bleach the deck to get rid of any blood evidence, you know the routine. Then," Armeni bent down, and pulled Neal's head up by the hair and stared into his eyes, "once your wrist is bandaged and the blood and vomit are washed off you, you may serve us dinner. Don't keep us waiting long."


	9. Chapter 9

Since I can't post on Saturday, there will be another post today and then the next post will be on Sunday. I just have to say, I'm overwhelmed with the response I've received for the last chapter. Thank you all for your very generous comments and for reading.

Chapter IX

He woke.

It was dark. He was shivering, lying in a heap on the deck of his cabin in a pool of water, still in those soaked clothes he'd been in the night before. He didn't remember how he got back here. In fact the last thing he remembered was holding the razor over his wrist, thinking, thinking he could... His eyes opened wide with what he remembered. He was holding the razor over his head and he was seriously considering...

"Damn it, No damn it," he hit the floor with the palm of his hand over and over again. _I wasn't thinking, Armeni was. It was a con and I bought into my own playacting, bought into my own submission and I let Armeni do all the thinking for me. Damn it._ It had nearly broken him.

Neal was scared of what had happened. He'd acted like a god damn amateur, he'd lost control and let himself get sucked into the persona, forgetting what he was there for, forgetting who he was.

He shivered from the chill as a slight whiff of blood still came off from the damp material. Barely wanting to move he stripped out of the outfit as quickly as he could and stumbled into the shower where he lost what was left in his stomach and then scrubbed himself raw. But he couldn't scrub away the image in his mind of his hand holding that bloody razor as it butchered that poor girl. Even awake, the image changed for him, from holding the knife cutting her to him cutting himself.

The bandage on his right wrist came off in the shower. Fifteen stitches held the red edged wound together. That was the one he had done to himself, to try and trick Armeni. His left wrist was fine, he had not even touched it with the blade. Yet along with the flashbacks the blood oozed out, dripping onto the deck.

_I tried to kill myself._ He was caught between horror at what he was made to do and fear of what he almost did. Ironically it had been Armeni who had saved his life, for some sick, selfish reason no doubt, but he had. _The bastard will probably demand I be grateful to him for it._

Neal painfully pulled himself up the shower stall to stand and maneuvered himself and the shower head so that the hot water pounded him on his shoulder, bringing some relief from the physical pain.

A plan, he needed a plan but the only possibilities Neal saw ahead of him were filled with pain, not only for himself but for those he cared for. How long would they care for him when they saw the evidence of his butchery? Would they take his word against the evidence? Was it worth it to even try?

While Armeni was suspected of almost every heinous crime there was, there'd never been any proof. In any court, they'd take Armeni's word against Neal's; he had first hand experience of the word of an assassin taken over his word that of a professional liar.

Sparing a glance at the clock, Neal saw he had barely an hour to write out a report for Peter and get to the dock side hatch to meet with Green. Neal felt rotten, aches and pains in every muscle and bone. Even his hair hurt. But this was what he had to do to get Armeni, to get the bastard and he was determined to do it.

Looking in the mirror, about to shave, Neal barely recognized the image staring back at him. He usually turned heads, he knew, but this time they'd be turned away. His eye, nearly swollen shut shown over a painfully swollen black and blue cheek, his shoulder, which he thought had only been strained, was also showing signs of bruising. The one good thing was with his face messed up the way it was, he didn't have to be quite as careful about his expression, _I'm a glass is half full kind of guy_, he chuckled mirthlessly, downing a couple of pain killers, tears escaping from his eyes, not all from the pain of just moving, as he finished dressing.

As Neal wrote out his report to hand to Green, he thought about what happened the previous night and the evidence against him in the vault. _Plan, _Option one, he could break into the vault, once he found it, and dispose of the evidence as easily as Armeni had disposed of the body. However then there would be no proof at all that the girl was ever there. They couldn't prove Neal had anything to do with it but then, they couldn't prove Armeni did either. Disadvantages. _In order to build a case this has to be totally by the book. I break in and everything thereafter is tainted. _

Option two, _I can leave things as they are, follow orders to the letter (Would Peter actually believe I thought of this?) and report what happened, knowing that it is possible that once they got warrants and opened the vault that the evidence could be turned against me. _While Neal did not believe he would ever gain Peter's complete trust, he knew that the man had his back and had proven in the past he'd go to the wall for him.

Peter might not believe that Neal didn't steal something but he would believe that Neal would not butcher anyone. The thought not only steadied Neal emotionally but it helped him get a little of his own back. What happened to him was secondary. What was important was making sure that that girl's true murderer saw justice and lying about it now would not help matters later.

_They may never believe me, but at least I'l know I'm telling the truth and my actions will back me up. _He didn't know if this was the smartest thing he'd ever done or the dumbest but he decided, no mater what the consequences were for him, as he wrote his report out, he detailed the events as clearly as he could remember.

Neal made it down to the dockside hatch just as Green was about to leave and called out to him. "Again with the disbelieving eyes,' he smiled as best he could as Green looked up and down at Neal snapping pictures. "I really wish you wouldn't do that."

"Neal, please you have got to come with me now. Have you looked in a mirror this morning? Please, I don't want to leave you here to get killed for the sake of an operation."

"Yeah, I looked. I'm going for the 10 rounds with Mike Tyson look today."

Green did not look amused

"Larry, I can't leave now. There's an important dinner going on tonight. Armeni has," Neal hesitated for a moment, "he's done some things he thinks will insure that he can trust me. He'll be keeping me close during that dinner, probably showing off his control. But that means his guard will be down and I'll hear things and see things I wouldn't otherwise."

Green accepted the report Neal gave him. "Be here tomorrow morning. Be here and be ready to leave. Understand, no matter what," said Green.

"Okay, no matter what."

As soon as Neal returned from the dockside hatch he was summoned to Armeni's presence, this time the inner sanctum of Armeni's rooms, his study.

He knocked and waited until he was told to enter and then as he opened the door, he barely contained his awe. Hanging on the walls and displayed around the room had to be the mother lode. Even doing no more than glancing at the walls, Neal counted at least 50 major works of art, some had been looted by the Nazis and never seen since except in art history books, one stolen more recently from the French Museum of Modern Art, at least 10 Picassos, a Da Cortona, a Vidal, a Fischer, a few Hoppers and those were only the paintings.

_This is a test, I know it is. _ He could not be curious, he could not seem interested, and it was none of his concern and so he 'nervously,' fingered his tie clip only a few times to snap pictures of as much of the collection as he could.

Neal kept his face as blank as possible as he approached Armeni who was sitting behind a huge walnut desk, conversing with Link and a few staff directors Neal had interacted with only slightly since he'd come aboard.

Armeni seemed neutral at Neal's approach yet this could mean he was pleased with Neal so far or he'd come up with another way to torment him or anything in between.

"Haldon, I have your complete loyalty?"

Neal thought of the girl Armeni had used him to kill.

"Yes sir."

"I have our obedience?"

Neal thought of the dry shave he'd given himself.

"Yes sir."

"I can trust you?"

Barely containing his hatred, while imagining how the evidence he hoped to find would be used by at least 10 countries while they fought it out as to which would get custody of Armeni's carcass so they could throw his ass into their finest correctional establishments, Neal replied, "Yes, sir."

"Then join us, this concerns your duties for tonight."

The meeting went on for two hours. All the logistics of serving dinner to 225 people were reviewed.

"You're new to my service so I'll go over the plan with you. I have acquired objects of great value from all over the world in order to fulfill the requests of an elite list of customerst who look upon the acquiring of art as a demonstration of their power and their wealth, a way to enhance their reputations in certain circles. But the means of my acquisition is frowned upon and my customers must hide their new baubles from sight. This defeats their purpose. They need to have word spread yet to do so in the usual manner would have certain undesirable elements sniffing around..

"I came upon the plan to have a great party, an event, if you will, where all my customers could come and gaze upon all the art I've acquired for them as well as for others. Of course, I always have some other work available for sale as well. This helps them solidify their power and gives me a reason to more than double my price, my profit.

"It is most important that the service given these customers is impeccable. I leave that to you Haldon."

Armeni went on and on until he spoke about the tours his guests would have of the vault.

Neal's ears perked up at that, because while he knew there was a vault, he had as yet been unable to locate it. Neal was surprised to learn that the art hanging on the walls was not to be removed. It was art that was kept in a vault in Armeni's office, the same vault that held the evidence that could be used to convict Neal or Armeni of murder.

Armeni continued his instructions. Neal's staff would be serving drinks up to and until the last guest left for bed.

"I trust you, Haldon. You will be there with brandy in hand even into the vault if so requested by my guests."

"Yes sir.'

Even with all the preparatory activity going on, Neal finally had the time to transmit an updated report to Peter positively identifying many of the pieces of art on the walls as stolen pieces, though admitting that they could be very good forgeries unless he could get closer to them.

However he could also tell him he would get a chance to see the art in the vault and be close enough to make as positive a mere visual identification could be. The guests would be staying the night, their artwork crated and sent with them when they left the following day. The FBI could nail Armeni for selling stolen artwork and the guests for buying it.

As Neal put away the transmitter, he saw the door to Armeni's room slowly close and his heart sunk. Though Neal hadn't said a word, somebody saw him using Armeni's phone. He closed his eyes and though he didn't remember the last time he was in a church for the purpose of prayer, he offered up one right now. Armeni seemed amazingly creative in ways to torment him, upping it more than a notch every time. If his breech got back to him, Neal didn't know if he'd survive the next level.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

As he viewed the pictures sent by Green that day, Peter felt sick to his stomach. The left side of Neal's face was one huge bruise with his eye swollen shut, and Peter didn't know how the man was standing on his feet. There was a vacancy to his one good eye that Peter had never seen and it was obvious that any movement of his right arm caused him pain. Beyond that, in the way Neal held himself, Peter could tell that the man was terrified and stressed to his last nerve. Neal was no coward and he used his fear to focus, but there was something else going on here which Peter could not fathom without seeing Neal in person.

When he read Neal's report the answer came clear. Given Neal's nature, which Peter knew well, he didn't know how he was remaining sane after this, if he even was still sane. If Armeni was in his office right now, Peter would not be held responsible for his actions. Why the megalomaniac seemed to have taken on a fascination with Neal was beyond him but it was evident that he was doing his best to break him.

Yet Neal appeared to be holding it together even if it was just barely. He had reported the murder of Armeni's mistress and how he had been used. Then he reported how he'd almost killed himself.

Peter nearly choked. "Oh, Neal." In the privacy of his office, the hard nosed federal agent was not ashamed of the few tears that came to his eyes, though he quickly wiped them away. His jaw set, Peter was not going to let this go on. He was going to drag Neal back here in chains if he had to. He read through the rest of the report carefully looking for other signs of Neal's mental state. Knowing Neal as he did, the report was either a major lapse in judgment or Neal was so focused on getting Armeni that he was willing to risk whatever might happen to him. However, as far as building a case against Armeni, it was the best thing Neal could have done. _But when has Neal ever thought about the best legal options where there were so many illegal ones that would serve better? _Peter just hoped that Neal would not be driven to resort to those.

Peter read Green's report which indicated that despite Neal's promise, he was sure that Neal would not leave on his own, until he was sure he had gotten every bit of evidence against Armeni possible. The way things were going, Peter was worried that Neal might not leave until he… no he would not finish that thought.

Peter knew what he wanted to do, but he was going to think it through, every aspect, before he played devil's advocate to his own plan. If there was a better, safer way, to get Neal off that ship, he wanted to find it, but after an hour, he couldn't. He made his decision and asked Hughes for a few minutes of his time.

Later that afternoon, Peter was called back into Hughes office and offered a seat.

"This report Caffrey turned in..."

"Armeni is known to be a manipulative bastard. I have no doubt that Neal is telling the truth. I'll stake my career on it."

"That's exactly what we are staking, Peter. Caffrey is disruptive, treats criminal investigation as a game and isn't above cutting corners but I can't say his heart isn't in the right place. He's not a killer. He wants these guys in prison. He is doing this by the book. I'm sure once we get the evidence, our forensic team will analysis it. They will find the proof to back Neal up."

"Agreed, will that be all?"

"For now."

Peter, stood up to leave, sure his request to go after Neal had been denied. He'd have to find another way.

"By the way Troy Miller has skipped bail," Hughes said as an afterthought to Peter just as he reached the door. Peter smiled to himself and then schooled his features quickly to investigative concern and turned back.

"Does anyone know where he is?"

"No, I don't believe so but rumor is he's lying low until tonight when he'll be picked up by Armeni's helicopter and taken to the Regnum Atros to meet with Armeni. It seems Armeni never paid him and he wants his money."

"They've never met?" asked Peter.

"No, according to Miller, they never did. Miller's MO has always been to avoid contact with clients so that if they decide to turn him in, they can't identify him. Besides, he knows we have him dead to rights on the explosion. Flipping on Armeni was the only way to get a reduced sentence. If he's lying, it's back to life without possibility of parole.

"Okay, then."

Hughes bent back to the mounds of work on his desk.

Suddenly Peter put a hand to his stomach, and sat down heavily in the guest chair groaning. "You know Reece; I'm not really feeling very well. I think I have a case of the flu so I'm going home and I probably won't be in for a few days, maybe a week."

Hughes looked up at him. "Damn it, Burke, you're sick now? Get out of here and don't you dare infect anyone in this office. That's all I need. The flu can wipe out half the building in a week. Then the same idiots who have it come in with high temperatures, fever that comes and goes, upset stomach. Go home, you'll need uninterrupted rest so I won't expect to hear from you either. I want you to stay away from work until your 100 percent, you got me."

"Got it."

Hughes stood up as Peter moved to leave and the men shook hands, "Good luck Peter, and bring that pain in the ass project of yours back here, preferably in one piece."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter X

WARNING: Major whumpage

"So this is Alfred Haldon, huh." it was a testament to Neal's level of self control for him not to have dropped the silver tray he was carrying with the etched crystal decanter of Fortnum's Oloroso VORS 30 year old Sherry and the Waterford crystal glasses as he backed into Armeni's inner office, the first time he'd been there, to serve the guest who had arrived earlier than expected. _He was supposed to be in prison._

The room was huge, with one wall a floor to ceiling book shelf packed solid with what Neal could see were rare collections. The other walls were decorated with more paintings which, if they were not forgeries, had been stolen from all over the world.

"Haldon will do," Armeni said to his guest. He turned back to Neal, "Put the tray over there on the credenza and serve us."

Neal managed to walk at a sedate pace to do as he was told while his heart was racing a mile a minute. He didn't think there was much more Armeni could do to keep him off balance, but again, he underestimated the psychopath.

Armeni and Matthew Keller exchanged quiet pleasantries, sitting across from each other on tapestried Queen Anne chairs nest to Armeni's onyx desk and ignored Neal until he brought them their drinks. "He came highly recommended but he still needs instruction in developing the finer qualities of a good butler, don't you Haldon?"

"Yes sir," Neal said without inflection, standing straight, and eyes not moving.

"Yeah, I can see that," Keller lifted up the security badge that Neal wore around his neck with the picture of him taken only two days ago, when he first arrived, comparing it to his visage now. He smirked as he reached over and pushed at the swelling still on Neal's face.

The pain wasn't as excruciating as the anxiety as Keller indulged in poking at Neal's bruises while Neal diverted himself from the pain by trying to divine his opponent's game. Keller wouldn't have any qualms about snitching Neal out just for the fun of it, and if he could make some money in the process, that would be irresistible.

Kellter grabbed Neal's wrist, re-bandaged, more because Neal couldn't bear to look at it, and made a show of examining Neal's hands, "doesn't like to get his hands dirty, does he?"

"That was a problem but I believe we've addressed that sufficiently last night," Armeni commented as if the cold blooded butchery of his mistress was no more to him than a minor reprimand of a servant, and to him, it was.

"Seems to me I've seen you someplace before, Haldon."

Armeni, thankfully answered before Neal had even a chance to draw breath, "His references are from some of the finest homes in New York."

"Yeah, it might have been there. But then again, butlers are supposed to be inconspicuous, humble, with no imagination. Do you have any imagination Haldon?"

Again Armeni answered shaking his head, "Unfortunately, I've seen a few signs of it."

"But not too much, I wager. Hey Count?" Keller chuckled and walked around Neal swinging his arm over onto Neal's shoulders, squeezing hard. "So Count, we can talk in front of Haldon, right?

Armeni stared into Neal's eyes, "No, he hasn't been properly broken in yet. We've been dealing with his flaws one at a time, I'll be adding imagination to the list too, I'm sure. He's had a few lessons in discretion, loyalty and obedience."

"Obedience? Like training for a dog, huh," Keller chuckled. "That's what it would take. I'll remember that."

Armeni grinned, "Dogs are much easier. Unlike man's best friend, Haldon will need some lessons in humility I think. Don't you Haldon?"

"As you say sir."

"Hey, now, I'd like to see that," Keller squeezed Neal's shoulders. "Oughta be good." Neal nearly bit his tongue through to keep from reacting as Keller pinched hard at Neal's bruised cheek before finally letting go.

"Yes, humiliation is best taught in a less private setting where more people can join in. There would be a nominal fee, of course, more if you wish to actively participate."

Keller looked Neal straight in the eye. "Hey, I get a chance to buy tickets for that? Yeah, that's what I like to hear. I'll pay whatever the price is. Besides, I'm planning a deal right now that will more than pay for it," he smiled.

"Good, we can negotiate after the art is presented tonight. I'm sure it will be worth every penny."

"Hey, your word is good enough for me."

Neal nearly fainted in relief when Armeni lead Keller away to a section of the book shelf against the far wall. Yet he could not control the raw fear that surged through him. Keller knew who Neal was, he knew who he worked for and he probably surmised why he was here. The only reason Keller hadn't yet spilled the beans had to be because he was going to play this against Neal some how. _That must be the deal Keller spoke about. _Neal didn't care what Keller's game was and as such, he'd promise him anything. All he had to do was keep it together for this one night and if he had any luck, he'd be out of here.

Then movement across the room caught Neal's eye when the shelving slid out and to the side, hiding a huge vault. It was the vault, the one with all the art, the secrets, everything. The two men entered but Neal could not see inside. He knew he had to get in there, the sooner the better. The evidence he'd find in there would nail Armeni and topple his dark kingdom.

The quiet conversation drifted into his thoughts as the men walked out, "Our bargain was for $1 million. Good explosives men don't come cheap and I have overhead as well."

"The job was only half way completed. I paid for both, I only got one. I should only have to pay for one. I want to know why he failed and what the fallout will be. "

"I've received word he's due to arrive later this evening and we can all discuss it after my business is complete here."

Suddenly there was a knock on the door and Link entered. "Count Armeni, the rest of your guests are arriving and are being entertained in the salon until you are ready. Chef informs me dinner will be served upon your request."

"Ah, excellent, we'll be right in. Haldon, you know what you have to do."

Keller laughed as Neal left the room, "So, Count, what have you got to eat around here that's good? I'm starved."

Neal barely caught himself from collapsing as he exited the room. Keller was playing with him now, Armeni was about to teach him another no doubt painful and terrifying lesson and dinner was going to get cold if he did not organize it being served.

_I'm definably becoming hysterical. _Neal knew he had to hold it together until tomorrow morning. The only thing that was keeping him going was the knowledge that if he could spot the art he knew was definitely stolen tonight, the FBI would have enough to get warrants to search the ship and put Armeni and some other major scum away for good, he hoped. That is if Armeni left enough of Neal whole to function enough to call Peter.

"And to think," Neal shook his head, "I gave up prison for this."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Dinner was all that Neal expected it to be and more.

Neal leading the line of under butlers into the dining room, carrying trays of the covered plates of appetizers and, set one in front of each guest, removed the cover with just enough flourish for presentation but not so much as to be ostentatious.

Not that ostentation would be noticed by these particular people. While Neal had never met anyone of them in person, he had seen their pictures and read about them and he didn't think that as jaded as he had become to corruption, he was still shocked to see some of the people there.

Men known to represent large governments mingled with kings and dictators of smaller and poorer countries who had no problem exchanging banter with some known underworld figures from every country known to have a mafia. He found no surprise that the poorer the country the more expensive the suits, gowns and jewels. Gold, silver, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds and rubies nearly dripped from the women in attendance, but he doubted any of them were actually wives. He didn't know, and except from making sure he got their pictures, he didn't care.

The amber music box! As Neal looked up from removing the cover from Armeni's plate he almost lost it as he spotted the treasure he stole from the Italian Embassy, sitting on the table in front of an Asian delegation lead by none other than Interpol Agent Mei Lynn Wong.

Their eyes caught for a moment and Mei Lynn's went wide with surprise, shock and possibly even some concern, but she quickly subdued her reaction.

_Control, control, keep control_, Neal thought barely tearing his eyes away while he gave the cover to an under butler and fetched the wine from the sideboard to pour for the first course.

Every once in a while a guest would halt Neal, look from the security badge to his face. "What a waste," said one girl, about the same age as Armeni's former mistress. Others smirked and raised their glass of wine to Armeni in acknowledgment.

Armeni had been deep in conversation with one of the other guests and so Neal had not noticed his eyes on him, or how Armeni pressed his lips in to a visage of delighted anticipation as Neal's hands shook and almost over poured the wine.

As soon as Neal finished pouring for Armeni, the Count tossed it on Neal's face.

"If you'll excuse me sir," but before Neal could finish asking to leave to change, Armeni grabbed his bruised arm.

"You will stay until I tell you to leave, Haldon and another lesson in obedience is obviously in order."

"As you say, sir," Neal said, and so it went throughout dinner, whenever Neal poured Armeni a glass of wine, the first glass would be poured over his head, thrown in his face, sloshed over his pants, until Neal was soaked with alcohol.

Every time he passed Keller on the way out, his opponent lit a match to relight a cigar, waving the match close to Neal's alcohol drenched clothing.

Neal could ill afford fury at this treatment, for all the treatment he'd been subjected to but the knowledge that this was almost over helped him keep his visage pleasant, his responses to direct questions genial.

Demeaning comments from Armeni continued, as his guests watched, some with less interest, some adding to his humilition like Keller and some masking all reaction, like Mei Lyn.

Yet this remarkably worked in Neal's favor as he was able to take pictures of everyone at the table, as well as get closer to identify more of the art which was on the walls.

These people had come to pick up art which they'd ordered from Armeni who had it stolen for them, some on order, some on consignment. In the process of fulfilling his orders, Armeni had other pieces taken he thought his customers would also like. It was not an auction but it was an exclusive gallery.

"People must know their place in society, my dear," Armeni said to a woman whom Neal surmised was the new mistress, seated opposite the wife, "Like Haldon here."

Neal stopped refilling wine glasses and stood straight, looking at Armeni, "Sir?"

"You know your place, don't you, Haldon?"

"Yes sir. I know my place." Neal remembered saying that to Peter, could it have been only two days ago. It felt like a lifetime. All his place meant then was that he could not see highly classified papers because he had broken several laws and been tried and convicted of just one of the crimes. As such, it was his own fault people who knew his past did not trust him. His place meant he had to accept that but it was something he was working on changing. He thought he'd felt humiliated then. If he had only known.

"Of course Haldon, and what is your place?"

"I'm in your employ sir," said Neal as pleasantly as he could.

Armeni shook his head, "Ah, I see the lessons have not yet been learned, but we'll have plenty of time for that soon. You may serve the coffee now.'

Neal had a horrifying feeling that he knew exactly what was coming and he didn't know if he could take it. It was one thing to be covered in wine but he trembled slightly at the thought of scalding hot coffee being thrown at him, poured over him, spilled on him.

None of that happened.

It was worse.

Neal brought in a pot of coffee for the final round and stood at Armeni's right side to await permission to pour.

Armeni looked up at Neal, "Haldon, you've had a very long, hard day, you must be exhausted. I wouldn't want you to spill anything, please put down the pot."

Neal knew that the sudden solicitous manner signaled an approaching nightmare. He was not wrong as Armeni stood up, grabbed Neal's wrist in a vice like grip, twisted his arm behind his back so he could not move and poured the scalding hot coffee over Neal's head.

Guests at the table gasped as Neal screamed in agony as the boiling liquid sluiced over his hair, over his face, dripped down is neck and was absorbed into his already damp clothing. Driven to his knees by the pain Neal tried to pull the cloth, drenched with the now hot liquid away from his skin, only to have Armeni bend his arm backward at any attempt of Neal to protect himself or ease the pain.

From the far side of the table, one guest, Keller, stood up, and applauded. "Bravo, Count. Bravo. Best way to cure clumsiness I've ever seen."

"Do you think you have learned to pay attention to what you are doing," Armeni said genially.

"Yes, sir," Neal was barely able to say through gritted teeth as he fought to control his pain response.

"Now you will be grateful that I am giving you one hour to collect yourself and be back here to serve refreshments as the art is brought in."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you grateful Haldon?"

"Yes," Neal said.

"What do you say when you have been given something you are grateful for?"

Neal could not believe he was still conscious with the pain from the liquid still scalding him. He had to get away and it seemed there was only one way to do that.

"Thank you sir."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter XI

Neal's legs were shaking so badly he could barely walk and only managed by holding on to the railing along the passageway wall to keep himself on his feet. He was shivering from the air on his burned scalp, face and chest; his heart raced with on setting shock and the effort to dispel the heat from his body but did nothing to dim the unrelenting pain. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, Neal didn't notice the tall man turning into the passageway until he heard a familiar voice calling his name, his real name in shock.

"Peter," he slurred the name softly, as he fell back against the hatchway, nearly sobbing in relief and exhaustion. He slowly slipped down but was only stopped by Peter's arms catching him

"Okay, its okay, I'm here, I've got you, Neal, I've got you, buddy," Peter said seeing the pain in Neal's eyes. He half carried Neal inside his quarters and laid him out on his bunk. Seeing that there was no lock on the door, he used a chair to jam it closed.

Shock must be setting in, thought Peter as he could feel Neal's body trembling, his eyes glassy, his extremities cold. "Neal, stay with me. Tell me what happened so I can help you."

Neal's eyelids fluttered slightly, "He, he," Neal lifted his arm and pointed to the top of his head. "poured hot coffee."

Peter could not believe this as his anger rose and he gripped the edge of the bed hard, gritting his teeth, ready to kill the bastard who could do this to anyone.

But there was no time to indulge his rage. Red and white blotches had already formed on Neal's face that could be first and second degree burns. Peter rushed to what he could see was the bathroom and soaked some towels, and layered them on Neal's face and head. "Alright, we need to get you out of these clothes, I need to see where else you're burned and how else you're hurt." Peter stripped a nearly unconscious Neal down and threw the coffee, and was that wine, soaked clothing into a corner.

Peter changed the cold compresses on Neal's head and face and put some more on the reddened areas of Neal's neck, shoulders and chest. Then he dosed a glass of water with some high powered pain killers he carried with him on under cover ops for just such an emergency. They also contained an energy booster. It was dangerous with Neal in this condition, but he needed Neal on his feet if they were going to be able to get off the ship without getting noticed. Gently helping Neal to a sitting position he made him drink it before letting him rest, pulling up a chair himself to the bed, replacing the cold towels to minimize the damage from the burns as much as possible.

After a few minutes the drugs kicked in and Neal came back to himself, "Peter?"

"Yeah, I'm here. How do you feel?"

"Not good, and please, don't ask me if I've looked in a mirror today. I get enough of that from Green."

"My G-d Neal. I barely recognized you. You look like a par boiled lobster. I should have pulled you out yesterday."

"Gee, Peter thanks. Either I look like a cartoon or an over cooked crustacean. Is there no satisfying you?" Neal tried to smile but it hurt and only emphasized his injuries to Peter.

"Who did this too you, why?"

Neal grimaced, "I was distracted. I saw the music box, Peter and Mei Lyn Wong. They're here. When I saw them I almost spilled some wine on Armeni."

"You almost spilled wine and he did this to you? And what the hell is your buddy from Interpol doing here with the music box?"

Neal ignored the question. "Why are you here?"

"To get you out."

Neal shook his head. "No, no I mean, what's your cover story?"

"I'm Troy Miller, I haven't gotten paid and …"

Peter stopped at the look of realization and then horror on Neal's face.

"Neal, Neal, what's wrong? Talk to me."

"That bastard, that fucking bastard, but why, why, I don't know why he'd do it."

"Neal, who are you talking about?"

"Keller. It was Keller."

"Matthew Keller, your bizarro opponent of the Franklin bottle?"

Neal just nodded.

"Is he here?"

"Yes."

"I don't know why they call it a super max prison if you guys just walk out whenever you damn well please."

"I wouldn't say it was that easy. It did take me a month and a half. I beat Keller by a good six months though."

"That's because you wanted to find Kate."

Neal grimaced a little at that, "so did he, to kill her."

"What?"

"Peter, Keller hired Armeni as a middle man to hire Miller to kill Kate and me."

"How do you know this?"

"Keller's here to meet with Miller and find out why the job was only half done. He hasn't paid Armeni and Armeni hasn't paid Miller. That's why Miller was coming here. I heard them talking this afternoon but I hadn't made the connection until you told me about Miller. I, I'm not surprised Keller paid for my death after we arrested him but I just don't understand why Keller wanted Kate dead."

"Most likely because if he couldn't have her, then he didn't want you to have her either."

Neal pondered that for a while, "Just because she chose me?"

"Maybe, maybe it was because she didn't choose him, maybe it had nothing to do with you at all. Neal, if Keller's seen you, why hasn't he snitched you out?"

"He may have and Armeni and he are just toying with me. I haven't figured it all out yet but you can be sure it's to humiliate me further. I think he wants to blackmail me, make me sweat. He already did that and is getting some jollies in as well, I assure you. But he knows you. You can't make that meeting."

"That's fine with me, let's just take the evidence you've recorded and get off this ship."

Neal wanted to but he wanted to finish the job he started too. "Peter, there's a vault in Armeni's office. I haven't gotten into it yet but from what I've seen it's huge and temperature and humidity controlled. I think it's a storehouse of all his loot."

"Neal, I told you, you can't break in. Anything you find in there would be inadmissible."

"Yeah, I know, but what if the door was already open?"

"What, why would it be?"

"Armeni is bringing art out of that vault for his guests after dinner, the art that they ordered. Then the door will remain open for his guests to view other art he's stolen that he's willing to sell. I've already been told I'm to serve his guests in the vault if they ask for anything. I can take pictures of what's there when I'm in there."

Peter wanted to protest, he didn't see how Neal could even stand on his feet but the man had gone too far to not finish what he'd started.

"Okay, but if those guests are here and the art is stolen and is being sold, we don't need a warrant. We can just come in, I can get you out of here Neal. You need medical attention."

That sounded good to Neal as well except for a few things. "Peter, I have to find out what that music box had to do with Kate's death, why is it so important?"

From the moment Neal mentioned the music box and Mei Lyn Wong the pieces of the puzzle were coming horribly together for Peter. It made sense that McMurphy aka Mentor, wanted that music box back. It was part of a much bigger political game that he was playing. He had the sick feeling that Fowler had been right, he had no idea what he was getting himself into. Unfortunately he couldn't tell Neal.

"I think she ordered Armeni to get the music box. That must be how she knew anything about who was holding Kate. If I go back to the salon and finish I can find out who she's getting it for, who started this whole mess."

"And probably get yourself killed."

"You saw my report. The evidence is in Armeni's vault. I'm sure when this is over the someone high up that we both know will find a way to use that to threaten me with sending me back to prison for life or for a needle. I'll get killed now or I'll be executed later. It's a no win situation."

"No, Neal," Peter couldn't believe that Neal was so willing to give up his life like this.

"I believe your report Neal, so does Hughes. We'll have forensics go over the evidence as well."

"Peter, they'll never believe my word, you know that, only the evidence and the evidence, which Armeni most likely had doctored will convict me. Armeni's done this before. There won't be anything to support that I was forced, nothing."

"Then you're going to destroy the evidence? We have you're report Neal. You could have just left that out. No one would have been the wiser."

"I would have."

Peter shook his head in confusion.

"Peter, how can anybody trust me if I can't even trust myself to do the right thing, even when I might suffer for it? I had to tell you and I'm not steeling the evidence or destroying it. If I stole it and destroyed it, then I'd be exactly what they think I am, a no good liar. If I don't steel it even if I know it will convict me and put me back in prison for the rest of my life or on death row, then no matter whatever else I do I'll know."

"You'll know what?"

Neal placed his hand on Peter's, "That I'm deserving of your trust."

"Neal," Peter's breath caught in his throat as Neal's words broke his heart. "Neal, you've got to let me help you get out of here. You can barely stand."

Neal wanted this whole thing over more than Peter but he knew that if he didn't find out who wanted the music box he'd never rest and it would never be over, he'd never find peace.

Neal tried to push himself up, the towels falling from him, revealing some lingering redness and blistering "Peter, please, help me get dressed. I'm due back in the main salon any minute now," he said too exhausted to stand up by himself. "Please, all Armeni's guests will be there and the art Armeni had stolen for them. We'll be able to nail not only him but all the people who hired him."

Peter helped Neal up and brought a fresh set of clothing to him as Neal watched Peter's face as he looked him up and down, filled with concern, so different than Armeni's search for flaws to exploit.

"Fine," Peter said reluctantly, already knowing that Neal would do what he wanted with or without Peter's permission. "But Neal you're in no shape to continue this charade. You do what you can in 30 minutes because by then the Marines will be here. I'm pulling the plug and calling them in. Take as many pictures as you can and meet me by the dockside hatch. Larry Green should be waiting for us there."

"But Peter…"

"Neal, no. I'm breaking security right now. I know what Fowler and Mentor want of you. I won't stand by and let you throw away your life for their schemes. This is a White Collar op, not a suicide mission. You are coming out in 30 minutes even if I have to drag you out."

In an unusual move, Neal reached out to shake Peter's hand and then suddenly drew him in for a manly hug. Unfortunately Peter did not feel Neal take his backup weapon from his waist holster. There were a few more errands Neal needed to finish before he left the ship, one or two Peter could not be a part of, one he didn't know if he'd survive.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Armed with the knowledge that the con was nearly over, Neal, bruised, burned, scared, in pain and nearly dead on his feet was able to pull it together and be the perfect butler or as Neal imagined Armeni thought of as the perfect butler one more time.

Neal found it immensely easier to play subservient, fearful, and obedient when he knew he had Peter here with him at his back. Also at his back was Peter's spare H&K Glock 22 stuck in his belt under his jacket. Clothing himself in the characteristics of the persona Neal found a silver tray of glasses with a bottle of Courvoisier VSOP and carried it into the main salon where the display of art was underway.

Schooling his features against any surprise did not stop his gasp as he entered the salon finding himself facing booth upon booth displaying the stolen art, beauty and artistic truth that would be hidden away in private collections, hoarded by the proud owners for as long as they could hold on to it. The salon took up the entire bow side of the 12th deck and looked out on the ocean on three sides. Instead of hanging on the walls, each piece of art had its own separate display booth, complete with the name of the new owner. Some had the price that was paid, some, did not for owner's wishing to exhibit greater discretion.

Neal, no stranger to high end art theft for select customers understood that Armeni, criminal genius psychopath that he was, realized that these new owners would never be able to demonstrate their superiority, their ownership by displaying the art, showing off their ability to acquire the unattainable.

This is why the owners risked their positions to attend the salon for, what they paid for, more than for the art. The art salon that Armeni organized for the delivery of the goods enabled the new owners their one safe opportunity to display what they had to the right circle of people. While it could get them thrown in prison in another venue, here it spread the word to the super rich, notorious and powerful that these people were their equals if not their betters. These people had the wealth, the power, the greed, the lust to get what they wanted. It enhanced their social standing, their influence and business reputations without endangering themselves.

Neal took his time, snapping their pictures with their possessions and their associates, searching for the amber music box among the art on display as he served Armeni's guests their drinks. As he moved among the guests, Neal realized that he was also on display, a symbol of Armeni's power. Some saw his face, the burns, scars and bruising and turned away, unable to stomach his appearance, others stared at him, fascinated by the wounds, still others picked up the his security badge and openly compared him to his image, commenting on the change in his appearance to their companions as if he was not even there, or just a thing, not a person at all.

This was Armeni's display of power, showing off how he controlled the people around him, terrifying them, marking them, and isolating them so that they had the choice, obey or die.

Neal endured it, what they said, what they did or thought did not matter, this was all part of the con and they'd all be thrown in prison anyway. His wounds would heal and in a month or so, they'd be gone, no more than a lingering nightmare from which he would wake up in his bed in a loft in a mansion on Riverside Drive. But these people would all be in prison for a long time, maybe for the rest of their lives. _it's just a con, it's just part of the con._

Finally, with only one glass left on his tray, he approached Armeni standing with his wife and boyfriend at the end of the salon. Armeni, though his expression was as always genial, when he spoke his tone was livid as Neal served him his wine.

"You've shamed me Haldon. First, you were late and then when you finally arrived you made me wait while you served my guests. The need for your further instruction is becoming greater Haldon. Now I will have to devise some particularly creative way to teach you your place."

"I'll be anticipating the next lesson sir, with pleasure," Neal said, thinking of the impending Marine raid, turning his back on his self proclaimed better.

Satisfied that he had done his due diligence for the FBI's court cases, Neal left, grabbed a decanter of brandy and took the next five minutes filling snifters and snapping pictures concentrating on looking for Mei Lynn and the amber music box. He quickly found her, talking to some men, but the music box was not with her.

Focused on his approach to his target, Neal startled, almost dropping the decanter when his arm was grabbed by Keller. "This is good Caffrey," he said, "This is a memory I'll cherish, seeing you like this."

Neal fought to contain his sudden rage, "Why Keller?"

Keller did not pretend ignorance of what Neal meant. He smiled his half smile, twirled his goblet of wine and finished off a liquid brewed to be slowly savored in one gulp.

"Because…"


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter XII

Sirens blared but before any of the guests could do more than look around in alarm, Link's men rushed in; attempting to make a stand against the 'invasion' they screamed as some surrounded Armeni and pulled him out of the salon. Bodyguards barely got their guns out as their charges ran for any and every exit they could find.

Neal, grabbed for Keller, but he twisted and slipped out of Neal's grasp just as Neal heard Peter shout "FBI, put down your guns, hands in the air where we can see them," as he led a virtual army of FBI agents and United States Marines into the salon.

Government troops were flowing through the hatches, with more than enough fire power to overwhelm the most hardened of killers/ bodyguards. They grabbed everyone, men and women, gathering guns and knives and some more esoteric weaponry, and pushed the protesting and astonished 'guests' and their associates down on their knees with their hands behind their heads.

Neal turned back to try and spot Keller, but he had already disappeared.

"Damn," he said as he scanned the crowd, spotting his opponent's dark head near a hatch. Hoping to catch up with him, and detain Mei Lyn before she scurried away as well he ran to the exit but hadn't gotten five feet when he yelped as a fist the size of a ham wrapped itself around his bad shoulder and lifted him the air before pushing him down to his knees.

"You too scumbag," Neal looked up into the face of a mountain dressed like a Marine. In full assault gear he looked like he'd have no trouble chewing on Neal like a pretzel, with beer of course. Neal, didn't have to fake feeling cowed by the size of the man to surrender immediately.

"At ease, Sergeant, he's one of our," said Peter, also dressed in full assault gear.

The Marine looked Neal up and down, grunted, and went in search of another something to nibble on.

"You, okay?" Peter helped Neal to his feet and looked him up and down seeing no new injuries, yet the man still looked like he should spend the next week in a hospital bed.

Neal was anything but, okay, "Damn it Peter, you said you'd give me a half hour."

"I gave you more."

"You did?"

Peter just nodded. "Well, time flies..." Neal cut himself off as he looked up and down at Peter, "Like your outfit," he quipped.

"Yeah, I'm a real fashionista in kevlar. Did you happen to spot Armeni, Keller or Mei Lynn?"

"Yes to all. I had him Peter, I had Keller, and in the confusion he disappeared."

"It's a ship, Neal, he's not going anywhere," Peter assured him, "We've got every way off secured."

Neal didn't want to point out that Keller had no trouble walking out of a super maximum security prison. At least three miles of ocean to the closest land mass wouldn't necessarily offer him much of a challenge.

"Mei Lynn slipped out."

"How about Armeni?"

Neal just shrugged. "His thugs dragged him out of here when the alarms started blaring. I don't know where to."

"Sir?" Neal cringed at the honorific directed at Peter. He never wanted to say or hear that word again.

"Yes," said Peter turning to see a Marine private who didn't look old enough to shave.

"We've got some prisoners secured in another cabin. The lieutenant said you'll probably want to talk to them."

"Maybe its Keller," Peter said as he and Neal followed the Marine.

The chaos around the ship seemed to escalate, shouts and screams turned to gunfire and curses, as Neal and Peter followed the private to Armeni's bedroom where they found Link as well as Armeni red faced, down on their knees, hands behind their backs. Armeni's suit was torn, the shoulder looked nearly ripped off, and what was not torn was stained with wine and blood. Armeni's face was now decorated with an assortment of bruises. It didn't stop him from alternating threats with curses and bribes to those who guarded him.

"It is the butler, the butler did it," screamed Armeni when he spotted Neal walking over to him slightly behind Peter.

Peter looked at Neal, "Did he actually say 'the butler did it?'"

Neal just shrugged.

"He killed my beloved. He killed her. Why is he not under arrest as well?"

"He's my confidential informant," said Peter.

"A spy!" The Marine guards barely were about to restrain Armeni who looked angry enough to kill Neal with his bear hands. "I knew it, he is a spy and yet he killed in cold blood my Karina."

Neal hadn't even known her name, "Who is Karina?" Peter asked.

"She was my beloved," Armeni said, "he butchered her, before my eyes, I have all the evidence, it is in my vault."

Neal paled. Armeni was setting the stage for getting at least a reduced sentence by showing Neal to be some monster. It was starting already. Neal had no illusions as to what was going to happen to him. His word meant nothing. The court wouldn't even believe his report. But Amreni's manufactured evidence would be taken as truth, backed up, no doubt by the eyewitness accounts of Armeni, Link and the other men.

"What evidence," asked Peter as he in a barely perceptibly shake of his head stopped Neal's impending comment.

"I have pictures, I have video, I have the razor he used with his finger prints all over it," Armeni turned to sneer at Neal. "I may go to prison but you'll be there too. We'll have lots of time for me to take my revenge on you for killing my Karina."

"Quite possibly," Neal commented quietly, feeling all hope leave, surprised that handcuffs hadn't been snapped on his wrists already.

"So where is all this evidence you have?" asked Peter.

"I want immunity," Armeni said now in full dealing mode.

Neal had never seen such rage on Peter's face, not in the past year and a half, and not even when Peter was stalking him, even when Neal had alluded capture time and time again, Neal had never seen such anger focused on him as Peter focused on Armeni.

"You'll get what I damn well give you and you'll like it. Where is the fucking evidence?"

As bullies do, Armeni folded in on himself immediately, "It's, it's in my vault, in my office."

"It's in your vault?" Peter asked, and caught Neal's eye. Neal was sure that more stolen artwork, as well as other items of interest, would be in Armeni's vault.

"Show me," said Peter as he handcuffed Armeni and pulled him up by the cuffs around his wrists and gave him a shove that almost knocked him off his feet.

Armeni, under Marine guard, led Peter and Neal to his office, where Neal had seen him discussing with Keller, the failure of his own assassination.

"Well?" Peter asked, "Where's the vault?"

Armeni led the group to the bookcases.

"Pull out that volume of Machiavelli's 'The Prince' and the bookcase will swing aside".

Peter followed the instructions, and the vault opened, revealing every thief's dream trove. Neal felt like Ali Baba did coming upon the cave of loot stolen by the 40 thieves. The vault looked to be a full quarter the size of the entire 12th deck of the ship.

There were paintings of every size and description and every artist Neal had known of, there were antiquities, as well as sculptures, rare books, tapestries, carpets, even display cases of gemstones as well as set jewelry. It was any thief's dream come true, but Neal had eyes for only one item, one he'd hoped would be there.

But the music box was gone.

Peter's voice, ordering FBI agents to secure the vault and arrange for the loot to be bagged and transported broke Neal from his search. "So where is this evidence you claim to have, Armeni?"

The tyrant who had brutalized and humiliated Neal practically non-stop for 48 hours snuck smug smirks at him as he led them to a row of locked vault like filing cabinets on the stern side of the ship under a painting by Dega.

"Open it," Peter commanded.

"I need my hands," Armeni said

"That's not going to happen," Peter said to Armeni. "Tell him the combination," Peter said turning to Neal who looked astonished.

"Ah, I admire your style. That is perfect humiliation," Armeni sneered, "to have him hand over the evidence to you that will convict him." Armeni turned to Neal, "As soon as you give this to him, Haldon, you'll be joining me," he smirked.

Peter jerked Armeni by the handcuffs enough to for him to feel pain. "Shut your damn mouth unless it's to answer my questions. Tell him the code or I'll use your teeth to pry the damn thing open."

Armeni quickly told Neal the code for the filing cabinet. But when he pulled out the first drawer, there wasn't a single file there.

"It's empty."

"What? No, no," Armeni said struggling in the grip of the Marines who held him, trying to get over to the file cabinet.

Peter pushed Armeni back, none too gently into the guard's hands as Neal quickly rifled through the file separators. He saw labels for names for all the perps on the F.B.I.'s most wanted lists for every division as well as dozens of other deposed dictators and tyrants to common thugs and terrorists being sought, by Interpol, the CIA, MI6, Mossad , GRU and about a dozen other agencies. But there were no files.

"Try the other drawers," he told Neal.

Neal had never felt so heartsick, searching for evidence against himself to hand over to the only person he ever really trusted. But as each draw was opened, again, nothing was there, until he got to the last drawer.

Lying on the bottom of the drawer, under the file separators, by itself he found the envelope printed with the name Alfred Haldon. A million and one thoughts ran through his head. His back was to Peter, he could snatch the envelope and hide it, throw it over the side of the ship or on the way back to land. He could just hide it for now, come back later for it.

"Find anything?" Peter asked.

Neal turned and Peter looked at him, his face expressionless. Neal knew Peter had maneuvered this whole thing to give Neal a choice, to give Neal a chance. If he stole the evidence, there would be no proof that the woman, Karina, ever existed, but there also would be no proof against Neal. With all the horrors of prison he knew he could and probably would face, Neal could not do that to that frightened woman who he'd been forced to kill. Any justice he found for Kate would be meaningless if he did not get justice for this woman as well even if the justice was at his expense.

There was one more thing, secondary to his quest but primary to the rest of his life. He needed to know for himself, that despite what anybody else thought, the courts, the FBI staff, everyone he had ever tricked or conned, that he was trustworthy and that Peter was not just another mark, that when he did finally give Neal his trust, it would not be unfounded. Neal knew he couldn't have Peter's trust if he couldn't trust himself to do the right thing.

With a sigh, he pulled out the envelope and handed it to Peter as Armeni grinned in triumph.

Neal felt his future narrowing to a single distant growing gray dot. He'd always taken joy at the immense number of possibilities his life had to offer. Now he saw them dropping away leaving nothing but a life in prison or a death sentence.

But Peter startled in surprise as he pulled out a file from the folder, flipping through the documents and the photos. When he finished, he smirked at Armeni. "So this, this is your evidence?"

"Yes," said Armeni, "You've got pictures of Haldon kneeling over my Karina, leering at her, lusting for her blood, terrorizing her. There are photographs of him over the lifeless body of my beloved, holding the razor he used to butcher her. You've got the razor as well.

"And what's in this file is supposed to prove that this man did this heinous crime?" asked Peter.

"Yes, of course."

Peter laughed and Neal's eyes went wide, thinking he had dropped down a rabbit hole.

"What's so funny," asked Armeni, a question echoed in Neal's face.

"Oh, these are really graphic pictures; they show every detail of the crime of bond forgery by one Neal Caffery, one of the most non-violent felons I've ever met. This is his FBI case file. He's already been caught, tried and convicted, and serving out his time. There's nothing here about an Alfred Haldon."

Armeni's face turned white, "What, no, there are pictures there of Haldon covered in the blood of Karina"

"There are pictures of Caffery being processed after arrest, pictures of him at restaurants, bars, hotels, and, um, museums while he was under surveillance. But there are no pictures of him even holding a gun, let alone a knife, except to cut into a steak. However, if you insist that there are pictures, someplace of Alfred Haldon killing your beloved, I'd like to know why the person taking these supposed pictures was making memories instead of attempting to stop the murder?"

"What?" Armeni's eyes widened in shock.

Peter showed the file to Neal who looked at Peter in amazement, it was his own F.B.I. file, and the only pictures were the ones that Peter as well as other agents had shot of him while he was a subject of their surveillance. There was nothing there, no thumb drive, no card, no razor in the envelope.

But Armeni had not gotten to where he was without being able to present a better deal at a moment's notice.

"I've got more evidence, much more. I have files on every criminal, even those you don't know, Dontae Rashawn Morris, Matthew Keller, Eric V. Bartoli, James T. Hammes, Leonard Weston Ramey, Carl Gonzales Rubens and even Troy Miller.

Peter shot Neal a look, "Peter, there's nothing else in this cabinet. If there was I'd have handed it to you as well," Neal sounded defeated as Peter verified that there were no other envelopes or files in the cabinet.

"Then where could they be?" both looked up at the same time, "Keller.'

Peter threw Neal's FBI ID over Neal's neck so he wouldn't be stopped.

"Go, see if you can find him" said Peter, "but that's all, just find him, nothing else. I'll meet you at the dockside hatch," he called as Neal turned to leave. "But don't do anything stupid." he called out murmuring to himself, "He never listens to me."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter XIII

Neal left Armeni's vault and office and ran out into the passageway where he saw dozens of guests, bodyguard types, staff and accomplices being herded by government troops. Though stopped a few times by member of the FBI tactical team or Marines, all trying to separate out those who were had purchased stolen art from the cooks, maids, technicians and crew, Neal would quickly lift his consultant badge, which was hanging around his neck, thanks to Peter, and would immediately be released to continue on his way.

Neal saw at least two people try to break and run. The first, a young woman, probably an escort, crying, wrested her arm away from an FBI agent and made it to a cabin hatch before she was stopped by a Marine guard who she managed to sock in the jaw before she was subdued. A little further on, a man who was being handcuffed, jumped away and pulled a gun. He was shot. Yet most of the captives submitted. Neal speculated that they thought they could probably count on their bank accounts and connections to get them out of this so why risk bodily harm.

As he made his way down the passageway, there were other groups of prisoners, many voices, in different languages yelling curses, threats, offering bribes, and all speculating on what had happened, but all seemed to think this was some invading force taking over the ship.

_Far be it from me to correct that assumption, _Neal thought. But then again, from their perspective, it was probably right.

After being stopped a number of times and then released upon his captors seeing his badge, Neal, afraid he might be delayed in the passageway as well as feeling like a target for some enterprising revenge seeker, ducked into the family suite complex. He used inter-room hatches where only Armeni's family and personal servants had access, and was able to avoid the chaos until he got to the stern of the ship, where the staff elevators, the only ones that went to every deck of the ship from this level were located.

Exiting the last cabin he saw few people milling about, mostly kitchen staff and housekeeping workers who had gotten turned around not knowing what was going on, not realizing that their tormenter, the man who had kept them terrorized for so long was gone. They had no idea they were free. They were frightened and their panic was mounting, drawing the attention of the FBI and the Marines. Neal was afraid that guns were going to be coming out and some of them would be pointed at him. Even with the gun stuck into his belt at his back, this did not make him feel any less vulnerable.

Through the din of the chatter, panic and occasional gunfire, Neal spotted Keller entering one of the staff elevators. He could only be going to the supply hold of the ship if he was planning any escape. Neal ran after him, checking his gun as he did, hoping to catch Keller before he got away.

But just before the elevator doors closed, Keller spotted Neal. Smiling as if in triumph Keller pulled his own gun out from under his jacket as Neal dove for cover. But not before the bullet bore into Neal's flesh cutting deeply into his thigh as he twisted away. Surprised at not feeling the pain, Neal quickly scrambled to his feet grabbing the doors with his fingers, but he did not have the leverage to keep them open.

With the chaos, the adrenaline and the urgency, Neal barely felt the wound, and did not see the blood soak into his trousers. Neal knew he'd never be able to get down the stairs to the hold before Keller disappeared again, and the two other elevators on each side were on the lower levels.

He used his security card to open the controlling mechanism cursing when he saw the vary colored lights and cables were of a type Neal had not recognized and so, trusting to his luck, feeling it had to turn good at some point, he pulled out chips and replaced them.

Crossing circuits he wasn't able to stop the elevator car but remarkably he was able to trick the mechanism into opening the door. Without a second thought he leaped the seven feet, from the elevator door to the supporting cable, grabbed it with both hands as he fell. The jar to his bruised shoulder caused him to see stars for a moment and let loose his grip. He found himself sliding almost as fast as an unrestrained fall, his hands rubbed raw as he tried to grip the cable but could not halt his descent. Quickly he wrapped his legs around the cable and dug his shoes into the edges of the twists that twined around the main cord, immediately halting his fall, allowing him to hold on without placing so much of his weight on his shoulder.

Wrapping himself around the cable more firmly, he saw that he was just 20 feet above the roof of the elevator cab before a gust of wind from one of the other elevators moving in the shaft, nearly tore him away from his tenuous hold. As the cab descended, Neal slowly let himself down to ride on the cab roof and settled himself down as quietly as he could, not wanting Keller to realize he was above him and shoot through the cab. It was then that he felt his gorge rise at the odor of his own blood and looked down to see his trouser leg soaked and the red fluid dripping on the filthy top of the elevator cab.

Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Neal saw the wound, could see it bleed, yet he did not feel any pain. While grateful he didn't know why and could not help starring at the wound, sickened by the blood, and not a little afraid of what damage the bullet had done. He ripped off his shirt and tied it around his thigh, pushing his fear of what was wrong aside.

The elevator jerked and waiting just until Keller left; Neal opened the cab hatch and dropped to the floor with a great deal less grace than he was wont to have in the days of his heists. Thankfully, the doors were stuck open from Neal's previous quick and dirty elevator sabotage job.

Neal had barely exited the elevator into the dim, damp and cold interior of the hold when the sound of a shot rang out and echoed around the huge area. Neal dove for cover behind one of the temperature controlled containers trying to keep away from Keller as he stalked him. Whether he was the prey or the predator at this point he didn't know, and didn't care, as long as he'd have one last chance at the person responsible for Kate's murder.

The two men ducked and dodged each other, using their near equal athletic skills to climb and leap from container, to shelving, to catwalks and platforms, hiding place to hiding place as Keller kept shooting at anything he thought was Neal until Neal heard several clicks.

"Damn, out of bullets," Keller called out.

"You really expect me to believe that?"

From his perch on top of one of the containers, Neal watched unseen as Keller broke from his hiding place and walked out into the cargo receiving area, his arms a kimbo, no gun in sight. "Come on out Caffrey. Come out, come out wherever you are, I won't shoot you," Keller called out, "I can't."

It was then that Neal spotted someone else, lurking around the hold. He did not have much time. "You bet you won't" Neal said as he held his gun drawn on Keller with one hand while painfully shimmying down a ladder on the side of a container using just his legs and his other arm.

"A gun? Neal, I'm shocked," Keller said, as he smiled in triumph, his hands to his heart, "the great genus criminal Neal Caffery's imagination has failed him since he became the FBI's lap dog. Now he's forced to use a gun like the rest of us dolts. I wonder why. Have you finally decided to get your lily white hands dirty and take what you want?"

"All I want is for you to pay for what you've done," Neal said, reaching the deck, shaking slightly from the adrenaline high now that he stopped moving.

"Too bad Kate isn't around to see this." Keller smiled as he saw the pain his statement caused Neal. "She hated cowards just as much as she loved winners. Maybe if you'd grown some balls before this she'd still be alive. Huh Caffery, you think that you could have saved her?

Neal glared at him about to speak.

"Nay, nah, don't answer. I prefer just to triumph in the knowledge that you're no longer so 'imaginative'. You know the difference between you and me Caffrey?

"You're a murderer and I'm not."

"That's cute, but nay, that ain't it. It's that I'm in the game for what I can get. You were always in it for how you could prove you were smarter than everyone else. I wonder how it feels now to know that you're not smarter, better, or more creative then anyone else. In fact, you never had the guts to do what needed to be done until now that you really want something and when it really counts, you're just like me."

Neal approached Keller warily, not believing for a second that Keller did not have another weapon on him.

"All I want is for you to be punished for what you've done."

"Oh, and what, you're going to kill me?"

Neal spotted some slight movement by one of the containers. Time was running out for him to make sure Keller got what he deserved. "You walked out of prison so sending you back won't work. I tried the courts with your hired killer but they won't believe me. There's only one other option. I have to take care of it myself. I'm going to kill you Keller. I don't care what happens to me after that. You and I will probably take up the game again in Hell, but before I send you there, just tell me one thing, why?"

"Kate!" Keller said shrugging his shoulders.

"Kate?'

"Yeah, we had a thing Caffrey, you knew that."

"No, no, you didn't. Kate would never have done that to me."

"Oh, Neal, you are such a fool, you always have been, especially about that piece of ass."

"Don't talk about her like that.

"Kate played you Neal just like she tried to play me."

"No, Kate loved me, Keller. You couldn't' stand that."

Neal was shaking with anger and fear because somewhere deep inside, as much as he didn't want to believe Keller about Kate, he knew that he was right. But still he fought to believe his heart.

"Kate and me, we hooked up whenever we could, yeah. She wanted her cake, not just the crumbs you could give her. Thought I could give her the things you were too noble to try for. She didn't see what romance there was, starving in your sweet little fairytale. I'll tell you something Caffery, I bet you didn't know. Kate came to me the day they put you in prison."

"I don't believe you."

"Aw, it was so sweet, best sex I ever had, knowing you were dreaming about her that night while she was writhing under me calling my name. Every Sunday morning she'd go to you. Gotta thank you for that, Caffery. You got her real worked up. She was never hotter. She'd get back from visiting you and wanted to do nothing more than jump my bones."

Neal didn't want to hear but he couldn't stop listening to his heart being ripped out of him.

"Everything was just fine until Fowler showed up. He heard you had the music box and wanted it. Kate didn't think you had it but she couldn't convince him. He said word was you had it hidden away someplace with things too hot to fence. He said he'd pay her for it.

"On the other hand, she thought that if she could get her hands on it, she'd play Fowler, maybe even get you out of prison, the stupid little bitch. So she sent me searching, payment in trade, so to speak. She sent me all over the world looking for your secret stashes."

"She didn't know where they were," said Neal, remembering how he defended Kate to Mozzie. Mozzie had been more right than he ever knew.

"Yeah, I figured you couldn't be that good. I searched every place, even thought you were better than you are when I couldn't find them. That's when she and I came up with the plan. We'd get you to lead us to the stashes by getting you to break out of prison. Did you know we planned the notes, the maps, the codes, and the secret messages together, Neal, even the phone calls?"

Neal had never felt such pain, even what Armeni had inflicted on him paled to this. All the hours he spent trying to decipher the codes, all the anguish in worrying that Kate was in danger, that he couldn't save her, that someone kept her from him.

"It was so good, Neal. We were naked in bed, fresh from fucking when we'd compose those notes; figured out what to say to you, keep you guessing, keep you on edge, off balance, fearful, doubting, and suspicious of the only people who could help you. That was the very best part. And when we had it all planned out, she visited you for the last time."

Neal raised the gun, "Stop it, stop it."

"Oh Neal, she was good, always kept her hands clean, you know that. But Fowler needed to find the music box and so he put on the pressure."

"Stop it, stop it now or I'll shoot."

Keller glared at him, "Afraid of the truth, Caffrey, you always have been, preferring your little quests of rescuing the fair damsel. We played you and laughed. We laughed at you Caffrey.

Neal's hands were shaking so badly he could hardly hold the gun. "I mean it Keller, not one more word."

"Na, you won't shoot because you want to hear this. You're dying to hear this. This is the real good part, the best part. When she realized you didn't have the music box, didn't even know where it was, that's when she started on me again. Oh, Neal, gotta hand it to you, she was good, real good but I wasn't going to waste my time looking for the damn box when there were better scores out there. Then I realized I could take a page out of your book. I took what I wanted from her and gave her promises, just like you, promises that I'd always be there, promises that I loved her, promises of a better life. But she kept after me to get that music box for her. Finally I told her I wasn't going to play footsies anymore with a government whore. She was a real fine piece but nothing was good enough for me to try for that anymore."

"You're lying, Keller, its all lies."

"Neal, Neal, she played you, just like me. Oh Neal, but it was so good Neal, knowing I had her, knowing you thought she was your one true love. But she was really mine Thing is, she was the one. Imagine how I felt when I realized I loved her, but she went to you. Not because she loved you, bless her greedy little heart, it was never love. She went to you because you were so much easier for her to use."

Tears were streaming down Neal's face, but his resolve was strengthened.

"After the Franklin bottle, she came to visit me, in prison, you know. She came and told me that she had finally gotten you to steal the music box. She made a deal with Fowler to leave with you. I couldn't have that, not after you bested me with the Franklin bottle and sent me, one of your own kind to prison. I couldn't let you win, Neal. If I couldn't have her, then I couldn't let you have her either. She told me she was leaving with you, she told me when and she told me where that plane was going to be, just to taunt me, still wanting to have us both. She didn't know that even on the inside, I had connections, and you know what they say, two birds with one stone."

"So you paid to have us killed. But Miller screwed up and only murdered Kate."

"Yeah, he didn't figure on your keeper, Burke. You're friends with him, a Fed? How far you've fallen, but enough chit chat, I've said my piece. You want to kill me. Go ahead Caffrey, do it. I'll take this memory to the grave, the day I won, the day I stole Neal Caffrey's soul."

Neal raised the gun in shaky hands. "I already lost it the day Kate was killed."

"Neal!"

Neal barely startled at the sound of Peter's voice, keeping his eyes on Keller as Peter came from behind some other containers where he'd been waiting for Neal, his hands were held open and up, in front of him, "Neal, don't."

"He deserves to die. You know he deserves to die." Neal shot but the bullet went wild over Keller's head."

"G-d, Neal, please, give me the gun. You don't want to do this."

Keller laughed, "What is it Caffrey, you can't kill. I always knew you were lily livered."

"Keller, are you insane. He's going to kill you," Peter shouted inching closer.

"Don't come near me Peter or I'll shoot you too," Neal seemed to fiddle with the gun and then taking aim, he shot again, the bullet coming even closer to Keller's head.

"Wow Caffrey, you can't even hit the side of a barn door?" To another man, even an agent, Keller would have seemed the picture of cool, collected calm in the face of death.

But Neal could read people better than anyone Peter had ever seen. Something was going on here, something he didn't see before and so he decided to do something that would destroy his career if he was wrong. He was going to trust Neal and let him play this whole thing out.

"No, I'm just not close enough yet," Neal again fiddled with the gun and he took a few more steps so that he was no more than 10 feet away and shot, the bullet coming close enough to singe the side of Keller's face.

With the burn of the bullet Keller broke, "You won't kill me, you won't, you can't, you don't want to get your hands dirty."

Now Neal took the final steps, right up to Keller and put the barrel of the gun up between his eyes. "I don't have to worry about my aim, now, Keller, do I?"

For the first time Neal could remember, he saw Keller sweat, really sweat, "Hey, Burke, you gonna let him do this?" Keller said, a tremor to his voice.

Peter came closer, "You heard him. I interfere, I get shot and there's no way I'm going to trade my life for a piece of shit like you."

Neal grinned evilly as he pulled back the trigger.

"Okay, okay, Burke, if you stop him. I'll confess, I'll confess to everything. I bought Kate's death but Miller was supposed to get Neal too. I'll give you Miller, I'll give you Armeni, everything."

"You give me your word?" said Peter. "I'm not going to take the word of a con man," Peter winked at Neal who still held the gun at Keller's forehead.

"No, no, I can prove everything I say, all the evidence you need is in Armeni's vault."

"We were there, Keller, it was empty except for one file."

"Yeah, I did that. Thought I could get Neal to pay me for the Haldon file. I moved it and the rest of them; there's another file cabinet vault behind all the art under a Monnet at the port side of the entrance. The names of everyone in Armeni's network are there as well."

"That's it," Neal said as Peter came forward and took the gun out of Neal's hand and examined it.

"Hmm, look at that. Neal, did you know it was empty?"

Neal smiled up at Peter, "hey, you know, I'm not a gun guy."

"Too bad Neal," suddenly it was Keller who had his arm around Neal's neck with a gun held to his head. "I am, I still have one bullet left."

He pulled Neal backwards with him, cutting off his air. "I'm leaving Burke. But don't worry about your errand boy, I'll be sure to drop him off someplace between here and the shore."

Slowly suffocating Neal could hardly struggle as Keller kept a tight hold on him dragging him by the throat back toward the loading hatch.

"Oh, I'm not worried," Peter called out, "You got the shot?"

From behind the other containers, five Marines recon snipers, slowly walked out, their rifles pointed directly at Keller's head, the leader saying, "Yes, sir, we've all got it."

"Damn," Keller said as he released Neal and handed Peter his gun before Peter slapped handcuffs on him. Then suddenly he perked up, "I wonder what the judge will say when I tell them that you allowed a convicted felon to hold a loaded gun on me?"

"Nothing, Keller," Neal smiled, "As long as Peter's in the room, I'm allowed to hold a loaded gun as long as there's only one bullet in it. I'm allowed to shoot it too."

Peter nodded, "He's a trusted non-violent felon. Keller. There's no reason to think he'd kill anyone."

"Son of a bitch," he shook his head. "Three out of five, Caffrey. I still have one more play, something special, just for you."

"No, Keller, I don't think so. Game over."

And with that Neal Caffrey fell to the deck.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter XIV

When Francis Platz, Esquire himself, senior attorney of one of the largest criminal law firms in the country, came down from the 40th floor penthouse of Broadway and Fifth, better known as Platz Plateau, with his hat in his hand and knocked on the door to Hannah Magill's first floor office in the Federal Prosecutor's suite in the Department of Justice Building in Federal Plaza, she looked up from her desk, stacked high with folders and laughed in his face.

"Life imprisonment without possibility of parole. Please Hannah, come on, you're killing me here. Give me a break, for old time sake."

"Francis, this case makes me feel young again."

"They'll plead, all of them to everything."

"But Francis, dear, I haven't had so much fun in my entire life. I haven't slept in weeks getting ready for this trial yet I feel exhilarated. I've still got dozens of crates, not files mind you, but crates of evidence, statements and photographs to go through." She pointed to those self same crates piled up in her office, a guard posted to insure their security, in the case of the people vs. Rufus Gooch aka Count Rudolph Armeni, Matthew Keller and Troy Miller.

"Hmmm," she said looking at the evidence; hand on chin, her fingers tapping against her cheek. "So many charges, so little time and the counts just keep piling up. Should I start with destruction of aircraft, motor vehicles, or related facilities resulting in death, first-degree murder, murder for hire, murder committed at an airport serving international civil aviation, murder with the intent of preventing testimony by a witness, victim, or informant? Decisions, decisions. I could just start with the non-capital offenses, keep those upstanding citizens sweating in prison for a few years while I work my way up. Piracy is nice, so is terrorism, I hear Gitmo is beautiful this time of year. I haven't even sorted through what we'll cede to the state prosecutors up and down the entire east coast, just for now. All those assault charges, burglary, possession of stolen merchandise, sale of stolen merchandise, wow. Oh, and did I mention all the petitions from foreign governments just itching to get their hands on your clients' collective asses. We're going to have a field day in disbursing the money we've taken in criminal forfeitures; there was enough for two entire containers, more than 15 billion dollars and that's before we auction the ship. This may pay for the government health care plan all by itself. You think it's a good time to ask for a raise?"

"You're prime witness won't hold up. You saw what I did to him last time. I'll rip Caffrey to shreds. Before I'm done with him he'll be sobbing on the witness stand and begging to go back to prison himself."

"After what Armeni did to him, Platz, I'm not letting you anywhere near that poor dear boy. I don't have to. I've got signed affidavits indicating that Caffrey had been issued, in essence, a license to kill, sanctioned by the highest authorities. And as for attacks on Caffrey's character, despite what that psychopath Armeni did to him," she threw down photographs of Neal taken at the hospital, and had the satisfaction of seeing Platz look ill, "he still took the high road. He's proven that he's one of the most honorable people I've ever met. So you go ahead. You do your worst because now I have the evidence to put 1000 lethal injections into their arms and I haven't even gotten to the good stuff yet."

"Yeah, the good stuff, like Caffrey butchering Karina Vaslow."

"And of course, you have proof of that."

"Somehow that evidence disappeared."

"How ironic."

"I do have the report made by Caffrey himself."

"Yes, which states Armeni's man Link physically held him immobile and forced his arm down. Considering all the other things Armeni did to him, in public, in front of witnesses who are just begging to be heard for reduced sentences, gee; I wonder who a jury will believe?"

"Okay Hannah, we've both been in this game long enough to know when there's a deal to be made. What do you want?'

"I'll tell you what, you want to make my life easier, then have your clients plead guilty on all counts and we'll just go right on to sentencing with no motions to appeal. I won't even ask them to allocute. That would take at least another decade in court."

"You'll make a recommendation?"

"Sure will, I'll recommend that you take the checks they pay you and get them cashed now because it's going to get pretty difficult for you to collect on the rubber ones once I'm done."

"You're going for the death penalty?" he asked astonished.

"Let me count the ways," she said. "Do let the door hit your ass on the way out."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

If Neal heard the words, "It's going to take time," once more, he'd break into the Museum of Modern Art and spray paint 'They're all forgeries," under each and every painting on the wall and then frame the sadist employed by the hospital who was given the job of physical therapist and who had been twisting his leg into ways it was never meant to bend.

"It's going to take time," and Peter too.

"Don't even think it," said Peter who seemed to be able to read minds much better than the Taurus was able to read traffic as he drove Neal from his therapy session back to his loft. The sessions, leaving Neal sore and exhausted, were given after work so he could go home and rest his leg.

"How do you know what I'm thinking?"

Peter smirked, "Because I can read it in your face."

Neal was insulted. It had taken a while for him to deal with the slowly healing burn scars on his face, but thanks to a friend of Hughes he'd been able to accept himself and look at himself in the mirror again without flashbacks. He'd been practicing his expressions and was sure he'd even gotten his blood flow to his cheeks under control.

They rode in silence for a while. _No_ Neal thought, _Can't be anything illegal. Darn. Forgery is out, vandalism, out, breaking and entering, out. Pulling a prank used to be a whole lot easier. Maybe I can have a van filled with thyme delivered to the sadist. She'll have all the thyme she could possibly take._ Neal pondered that, tossed it around a bit as he stretched out his leg as much as it was possible in the car.

When Peter had dosed the water he'd given Neal with a powerful pain killer, he hadn't anticipated that Neal would be shot in the leg and do any acrobatics in elevator shafts and cargo holds of cruise liners.

Because Neal hadn't felt pain, he'd overstressed his leg, causing the bullet to bore in deeper and do a lot of muscle damage. Neal had been assured he'd heal but, it was going to take time. He'd only just, finally been able to get rid of the crutches but he still needed to use a cane, a stylish ebony one with a silver handle gifted him by June, but a cane, non-the-less.

"Neal, I've got to ask you a question but if you don't want to answer it, it's okay."

"That's ominous."

"Well, it's a difficult question to ask and I'm sure it will be even more difficult to answer."

Neal braced himself, "Okay."

"Do you want to appear to make a penalty impact statement?"

Neal knew exactly what Peter was talking about. He didn't have to think about it very long. "No."

"Okay."

Peter counted down two minutes.

"Don't you want to know why?"

"Only if you want to tell me."

After a few more blocks Neal spoke. "Do I want them dead? I certainly wouldn't mourn them, I may even dance on their graves. Do I want them to suffer? Yes, I want them to suffer as much as they've hurt me and Kate and Karina, everyone they hurt on that ship and all their victims. That could start to happen in prison but they'll break out, Peter. There's always a way. Even if they didn't Keller managed to have Kate killed when he was still in. Armeni's reach can be very long and Miller, Miller has helped at least a dozen unfit tyrants into power through assassinations and coups. There's someone out there with the power and the means to spring him if they need him, and they probably will. I don't know the solution. If I had one, I'd voice it. But that's not your real question, is it?

Peter quickly looked from the road to him. "No."

"I'm not going to seek revenge."

"You'll be okay with whatever the courts decide?"

"Are you going to trust me that I'm not lying?"

"If, despite what happened to Kate and you, you tell me you'll leave it to the judge and jury no matter what they decide, yes, I will trust you."

"Then yes. I'll leave it to the judge. Besides, it wasn't Keller or Miller or Armeni who started this whole thing. They were all nothing but pawns. They were selling their services but they were pawns none the less. I want to find out who set this whole chain of events in motion," _and I won't be able to do that if all my leads get lethal injections._

"We'll get the evidence, Neal, I promise you that."

Neal was a little uncomfortable with how Peter said that. He knew that Peter knew something that he wasn't telling him. But Neal was not a hypocrite. There were things he didn't tell Peter either. Yet Neal trusted Peter and it seemed he'd finally begun to earn Peter's trust, not in all things, but in more than he sometimes felt he deserved. He was surprised to find how important that was. Peter's trust was more valuable to him than any painting, any jewel, much harder to obtain and infinitely harder to safeguard, but he was determined to do everything he could to keep it.

"Speaking of evidence, what ever happened to the file against Alfred Haldon?" Neal asked.

"Don't know. The Regnum Atros was searched from stem to stern and it was not found."

"You know, I wish that we had found it and have done with it. If forensic analysis could prove it was faked then I wouldn't have to worry about someone trying to hold it over my head someday. If they couldn't, well, at least that would put an end to it as well. Right now all I know is that it's out there and there are people who will want to use it against me."

Both men were silent for a while as Peter maneuvered through the midtown evening rush hour traffic. Peter knew that it was more than likely that someone would try to use that evidence at some point against his friend, but at least it would not be today.

"So what is your plan, to frame the therapist for some ridiculous prank?"

Neal gave Peter a sharp look, "How'd you know?"

"And me too, I suppose?"

"Peter," Neal shook his head in wonderment. "You're getting down right scary."

Peter laughed, "So, come on, what were you planning?"

"What, do you think I'm nuts, I'm not going to tell you," Neal sounded affronted.

"Why not?"

"You'll either try to stop me, arrest me, or send me back to prison or any combination of the above."

"Neal, as long as at it doesn't involve breaking any laws, then I might even help you."

Neal turned to face him, his eyes wide in joy and surprise. "Really? You'll help me?"

"Hey, I'm your friend. I'll do anything I can to help you. I'll even take you back to the fireing range so you can learn how to shoot."

"Peter, you know, I'm not a gun guy."

"So no more trips to the firing range?" Peter said, more relieved than he realized he would be.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather stick to imagination to get what I want. It's legal, it's a lot more fun," Neal moaned as he stretched out his leg to stop it from cramping again, " and it doesn't hurt."

"I don't know about that," Peter said, thinking just how dangerous Neal's imagination could be.

"Peter?"

"Yes?"

"Would it break any laws to send the sadist on an all expense paid trip to the past? I mean then she could take all the time she wanted, right?"

Peter did a double take. Only Neal.

"As far as I know, the laws of physics are not included in the federal statutes so no, no laws that I could arrest you for," Peter stared, or glared at Neal for a moment before adding, "yet."

Neal leaned his head back with a big smile on his face, "I wonder what Mozzie thinks about the Fermi Paradox. If he thinks it's actually nothing more than a conspiracy by the military industrial complex and big oil, then I bet we can find a way around that."

Peter's head whipped around so fast to stare at Neal, he nearly swerved the car off the road. Only Neal would try to break the laws of Physics. He'd bet money on it that he would too. "Listen Dr. Beckett, no quantum leaps. Trips to the past would definitely violate you're two mile radius."

"Peter! Watch the road or I'll find a way to go back and replace your driver's license with a forgery, if it isn't already."

Inside, Peter rejoiced, Neal Caffrey was back. "Neal Caffrey time traveler," he shook his head, "Just promise me you won't do anything stupid. Please."

Epilogue:

Mei Lin Wong, Interpol agent, surrounded by security guards carried the Amber Music Box, originally owned by Catherine the Great through the Chinese embassy in Moscow to the office door of her revered uncle, Li Hue Wong, the ambassador of the People's Republic of China to the Russian Federation.

Li smiled at his niece, as she bowed to him before.

"Are you well, uncle?"

"I am well, niece."

She set the ornate box in front of him on his desk.

"You have done very well, child. This will bring great respect to us while causing embarrassment and dissension among the Americans, Italians and Germans. Offering to return a piece of their history to the Russians will earn their respect and gratitude, a valuable bargaining advantage in our new economic negotiations.

"Thank you uncle," Mei Lyn frowned. She had not been blind to the anguish Neal Caffrey had suffered through the entire operation.

"What is it my child?"

"We shamefully used an innocent man to achieve our goal. I fear for his future."

"Caffrey is no innocent," her uncle reproved her.

"Compared to us, uncle, he is."

Her uncle grumbled in disgust. "Did you see those photos, the DVD, the evidence, the way he butchered that young woman?"

"Yes, uncle. I saw, but in China Town I saw his honor, and the love he held for an undeserving woman. On the ship I also saw the horror on his face. I don't believe he is capable of that savagery."

"He is a con man, Mei Lin. I hope he did not con you."

"No uncle. I know exactly what Neal Caffrey is and of what he is capable."

"The other matter?"

"I sent the evidence to our American friend as you instructed."

"Good, that butcher will eventually get what he deserves. It will all work out, getting rid of loose ends while seeing justice done, and advancing our place on the world's chess board."

Minutes later, as she left the office of her uncle Mei Lin felt the vibration of her phone and shuddered when she saw that the call was from Dwight McMurphy.

"Hello Mei Lin,"

"Hello, Dwight."

"We need to talk about Neal."

THE END FOR NOW

Well, the ride on this one is over (or is it?) As so many of you have told me, this was a wee bit intense and I was a tad hard on Neal. A lot of people have asked that I write a "comfort" story considering there was so much hurt in this one. I have started plotting one out and as you've read, already surmised, it involves an old friend of Hughes.

To everyone who's read the story, I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I've enjoyed writing. To everyone whose read and reviewed the story, double thank yous for your time and consideration. To everyone who made this one of their favorite stories, thank you, thank you, thank you.

However my greatest thanks are to those who gave me some valuable constructive criticism. I can't express enough my appreciation for that.


End file.
